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BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 



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“MICHAEL, I WOULD KILL HIM” 




BY THE 

QUEEN’S GRACE 

A NOVEL 

By 

Virna Sheard 

Author of “ A Maid of Many Moods,” etc. 




Illustrated by 

J. E. McBURNEY 

NEW YORK • FREDERICK A. 

STOKES COMPANY • Publishers 



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FEB 9 1905 

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,,i;Av T Copyright, igo4, by 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 

Published in February, iqos 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


Michael, I Would Kill him”. . Frontispiece 

FACING 

PAGE 

She Stood . . . Fascinated by the Danger 
OF THE Play” 42 

She Stepped to the Edge of the Small 
Craft” 78 

Here be thy Wedding-gown” 94 


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9 


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CONTENTS 


I. Telling Somewhat of Old London 
Bridge, of Richard Davenport, Toll- 
taker AT North Tower, and his 
Daughter Joyce 9 

II. The Masked Juggler 19 

III. Davenport’s Decision. What the Bell- 

man Saw from the Bridge .... 45 

IV. Joyce Refuses to Obey 85 

V. The Flight to Somerset House . . .129 

VI. The Return of the Queen’s Ring . . 137 

VII. Queen Elizabeth Hears of Richard 

Davenport Again 155 

VIII. The Night of Joy. Sir Richard Daven- 
port Caverden’s Death 175 


IX. The New Maid of Honour 




203 


X. Her Majesty Remembers Lord Yelverton 217 

7 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 


Touching on Some Events in the Pass- 
ing OF Ten Years at the Court of 
Elizabeth 

Lord Yelverton Returns to London 

The Juggler at the Mask Ball . 

Old Michael Goes on a Journey 


PAGE 

239 

259 

281 

305 


8 


TELLING SOMEWHAT OF OLD 
LONDON BRIDGE, OF RICHARD 
DAVENPORT, TOLL-TAKER AT 
NORTH TOWER, AND HIS 
DAUGHTER JOYCE 


0 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

CHAPTER I 



HE toll-house at the northern tower of 


JL London Bridge was warped and rickety. 
Its gabled roof, red with rust, curled up at the 
eaves like the sides of a bishop’s hat, and the 
whole place leaned far over the river, seeming, 
indeed, to keep from falling more by some force 
of adhesion than stability of construction. 

Those were the days of the old bridge. After- 
ward Elizabeth restored it with much splendour, 
but at this time the narrow arches were crum- 
bling and the foundations crazy with age. Still, 
the people loved it for all it had seen of Eng- 
land’s past. 

‘Tf the bridge has a fault,” said some wag of 
the time, ‘‘it is its irritating habit of falling down 
in places.” Yet well had it stood out against 
the siege of time, and many a generation had it 
seen vanish as the river-mists of early morning. 


II 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Many a grim crusader returning from the holy 
wars had crossed it in triumphant state to the 
music of clinking spurs and linked armour. 

In the far-away days they let down the creak- 
ing drawbridge upon the southern side, so the 
beautiful boy-king, Richard, decked in his parti- 
coloured robes all a- jingle with little golden bells, 
might ride over in company of his merry fol- 
lowing. 

Henry V., fresh home from the plains of 
Agincourt with his battered army, made en- 
trance into London through the northern gates 
of the bridge, while the people strewed rosemary 
branches in the way for remembrance of their 
dear-bought victories, and stopped the stern war- 
rior that they might crown him with silver laurel- 
leaves. 

In later times, when the country was divided 
against itself, hot-headed gentlemen wearing the 
white rose of York, or the red rose of Lancaster, 
galloped that way in knots of twos or threes 
from dawn till dark, and from dark till dawn 
again. 

Harry of England, back from France and the 
mimic wars and tourneys of the Field of the 


12 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Cloth of Gold, took this path into the city with 
all his dazzling courtiers in his train. 

Sombre funerals had passed across the bridge 
in slow procession. Many a grim fight had 
stained the flooring red. Aye, and there had 
been jousts fought there for love of glory alone, 
when the towers had their turrets plumed with 
banners, and gay gentlemen rode beneath. 

All these things the place knew, and many 
were its burdens — most gruesome of all, the 
ghastly heads of traitors. These terrible tro- 
phies were still spiked upon the great Southwark 
gate, and were lit up in horrible brilliancy at 
night, when the flaming links fluttering in the 
river-wind threw weird shadows over their star- 
ing faces. 

Now Richard Davenport, toll-taker at the north 
tower, had been known far and wide in the days 
of his youth for his handsome face, and also for 
being a most rare villain. Nor did he lack wit, 
for he had slipped as by a charm through loop- 
holes that were too small or difficult for his com- 
panions, and for the most part the traps set to 
catch other cut-purses failed to catch him. 
Neither had he been branded in any way, either 

13 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


by the cat-o’-nine-tails, or by a brad-awl through 
the ear, as was the common way, though this was 
more by his good luck than good management. 

Yet Justice pursued him fiercely, and, light- 
heeled though he was, he had not always escaped. 

Once he languished in the pillory through the 
scorching heat of two long summer days; once 
barely missed flogging at the tail of a cart; and 
later for desperate highway robberies he was cap- 
tured and sentenced with three other gentlemen 
of the road to be hanged on Tyburn Hill. 

Having sown the wind, and hearing in his 
ears the oncoming rush of the whirlwind, he 
vowed to Heaven that if one more chance be 
granted him he would live peaceably to his life’s 
end. Whether these prayers made in terror 
reached Heaven, or the Prince of Darkness looked 
after his own, fortune certainly turned her wheel 
and meted out long life to a man who seemed to 
stand on the edge of eternity. For while he 
waited execution. Queen Mary died, and Eliza- 
beth came to the throne. Furthermore, the time 
set apart for coronation fell upon the very day 
that Davenport and his companions were to make 
their unhappy exit. 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Now, Her Majesty, perchance being wearied 
by hearing of burnings, hangings, rackings and 
the like — of which in truth there had of late been 
no scarcity in England — or else touched by the 
gladness of the people at her crowning, was not 
minded that her reign should be ushered in with 
bloodshed, and graciously pardoned all crim- 
inals not actually guilty of murder who were 
condemned to suffer death on that auspicious 
day. 

She was also pleased to bestow the papers of 
liberation with her own jewelled hands. When, 
therefore, this prisoner, Richard Davenport, came 
into the royal presence, with his fine melancholy 
face and appealing blue eyes, in which there was 
no apparent guile, but only a wistful sadness, the 
young Queen’s heart melted with pity, and she 
turned impulsively to her attendants, saying that 
here at least some error of Justice must surely 
have taken place, for if an evil spirit dwelt in so 
goodly and fair a body, it was for the first time. 
Furthermore, as the prisoner seemed quite broken- 
hearted, she desired Lord Burleigh to bestow a 
purse of five golden rose-nobles upon him that 
he might begin life anew. 

15 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Following this the prisoners were disbanded, 
Davenport bowing himself away in graceful hu- 
mility, yet with no undue self-abasement, and the 
nine others — who had no straight features or 
appealing eyes of azure, but for the most part 
carried the hall-mark of guilt most readably upon 
them — in a miserable shambling bunch, making 
for the open frantically, lest by some trick they 
be overtaken and condemned afresh. 

Still more, the Queen bore this lucky scape- 
grace in mind and desired to have him become 
a good citizen. Therefore he was given the post 
of toll-taker on London Bridge — a minor position 
in the gift of the Crown. But though Richard 
Davenport found the earth firm beneath him in- 
stead of the distressful opposite, his nature was 
unchanged, and he lived a peaceable life only for 
policy’s sake. 

Within a year he married a pretty, timid coun- 
try lass whose people were simple toilers of the 
land. She knew nothing of his past, and did not 
ask to know. It was enough for her that she 
loved him for his high-handed ways — so unlike 
any she had known — and for his mastery of 
herself. 


i6 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


She was sweet as one of her own garden-roses, 
but she was a rose transplanted, and the rushing 
of life over the bridge wore her heart away. The 
woman grew white and transparent as a spirit, 
then died, leaving one child — a girl beautiful be- 
yond words, and blessed, as it seemed, with a 
fine courage, for she feared neither the turmoil 
of the place nor the fierce and dominating temper 
of her father. And the little daughter of Daven- 
port was well acquainted with all the haunting 
sights and sounds of the bridge, for since her 
starry eyes first opened upon this changeful world 
these things had been constantly before them, an 
ever-altering panorama. 

After her mother died, the man, tiring of the 
care of the child, sent her daily to a convent, 
where she learned out of books both French and 
Latin, and where her tiny fingers caught the cun- 
ning art of tambour embroidery. And the clois- 
tered gray ladies of St. Anne’s would gladly have 
kept her longer, for she brought beauty, youth, 
and a harmless gayety into their colourless lives. 
But when Joyce grew old enough to take charge 
of the house, her father bade her stay at home, 
and, save for Silas Sloper, a one-legged old sailor 

17 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


who did odd work about the place, the two lived 
quite alone in the toll-house. 

It was damp and dark, and filled with the scent 
of mouldy wine-barrels, for there was a tavern 
next, a rendezvous for sailors and watermen, 
where a thriving business was done by one Jock 
Ferrier in old Burgundy and a certain sweet wine 
of Spain. 

Joyce Davenport was used to the sound of 
drunken revelries and carousing, yet she grew 
up as clear of soul and white as one of the little 
lilies that blossom in the deep marshes where the 
river widens out, and her face was the one bright, 
pure thing the sun saw when he looked into the 
latticed windows of the old toll-house. She was 
of a sunny nature and very gentle, yet with this 
gentleness was strangely blended an unbending 
will. There were times when Davenport won- 
dered why he dare go but certain distance of de- 
mand with her, for, though he had broken the 
spirit of his wife, this little maid of his had power 
to make him quail by simply looking at him in 
her still and tranquil way. And, therefore, she 
made a quiet place for herself in the heart of 
tumult 

l8 


THE MASKED JUGGLER 




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CHAPTER II 


T hrough the noisy hours of the day the 
toll-taker was busy and watchful lest some 
keen and money-saving driver pass by without 
tendering the city’s lawful coin. 

He had even before his mind’s eye the vision 
of a better and much coveted position — that of 
the collector of harbour dues — “the Queen’s pin- 
money” as it was called — from all ships that made 
anchor at the Billingsgate or Queenhithe quays. 
To be harbour-master was his keenest ambition, 
for it entailed little work and much money, both 
honestly come by and otherwise. No one knew 
better than himself the “light horsemen” and 
“felonious stevedores” of the Thames; the 
“whiskey runners,” the “tea skippers,” the 
“rough scullers,” “silk smugglers,” and all the 
great flotilla of desperadoes who kept to the silent 
highways of the river, and defied Sir Thomas 
Smith, Governor of Customs, and his motley staff 
of clerks. 

“There was gold to be gotten from all of them 


21 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


an' a man but knew how — gold — and much of it," 
he said to himself. So through the day Daven- 
port paid small heed to the comings and goings 
of his daughter, and she might trip in and out 
as she would. Provided only that his dinner be 
set to his liking and she made no delay over it, 
he asked nothing further, and he gave her many 
a caress when the mood was on him, and many a 
rough word when it was not. 

But always at even-tide, when traffic grew less, 
when the tired dray-horses drew their heavy loads 
toward home, and the little wherrys and punts 
made fast at their different wharfs ; after the great 
bell of St. Olave’s had tolled seven times and the 
river turned rose-colour in the west; when the 
diamond window-panes in the windows of the 
bridge houses and shops showed like cut brilliants, 
golden and fiery, till they dazzled the eye, then 
did her father turn the key in the toll-house door, 
and the little maid was locked in, like a jewel in 
a rusty casket. 

Then, too, came the one-legged sailor, and 
watched the gate through the long evening, leav- 
ing Davenport free to follow his own wild fancies. 
Generally these led him to those houses among 


22 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


the lowest river-streets, a lawless nest of places, 
where sailors fresh home from a long cruise made 
haste to rid them of their silver, and where cock- 
fighting, badger-baiting, and such pastimes were 
interlarded with much drinking of cheap hot 
wines and games of chance, in which a man along 
with the dice took his life in his hands. 

At evening the girl would throw wide open the 
latticed windows that swung back like tiny doors, 
so the sea-breeze up the river might blow through 
the house, and, leaning out, she would talk softly 
to Silas. He was slow of speech, this old sailor- 
man, and not over-wise, yet of an honest heart 
and of enough shrewdness withal to let no rider 
go by without handing down his silver penny. 
It was his greatest pride to be left in charge 
of the toll-house and the little lass, and he was 
much like a gray old watch-dog who, while seem- 
ing to sleep, hears each smallest sound. 

In idle moments Silas told tales of the sea, 
and it grew to be the dearest delight of his simple 
soul to watch the lovely face at the casement grow 
bright with interest as he spun his yarn out from 
one thrilling climax to another. It seemed there 
was no East Indian merchantman, no Portuguese 

23 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


carrack, no Spanish galleon sailing the high seas 
but Silas had been her pilot through scenes of 
horrid mutiny, bloody piracy, and deadly peril of 
the deep. There was no coral island of the brill- 
iant southern seas but his craft had beached upon 
it, no ice-bound silent shore in the Land of the 
Midnight Sun but he had made a port there at 
one time or another, and all men who were not 
Englishmen were barbarians to him, from the 
cultured foreigners of the distant East to the 
uncultured foreigners of the distant West. Often 
afterward would that poor head of his ache sorely, 
for the resources of his brain were not great, and 
those flights of fancy exhausted all its strength. 
Just where truth ended and exaggeration began 
he did not stop to ask himself; sufficient was it 
for Silas to see the blue eyes of his young mis- 
tress wide with astonishment, and to hear her 
voice tremble with anxiety as she pleaded to know 
more of some hardy hero or reckless adventurer. 

As time went by she grew tall and passing fair ; 
then there came a day when Richard Davenport 
suddenly awoke to the fact of her marvellous 
beauty and all it might mean to him. 

Joyce had come to the doorway to call him 
24 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


to his mid-day meal ; and, standing framed thus in 
the rough wood, the room dark behind her, she 
made a picture rare and not to be forgotten. 
Her hair, which was of a flaxen that seemed 
touched with silver, waved about her head so 
light and soft that each breath ruffled it. The 
delicate brows and curling lashes of her eyes, in 
strange contrast, were as dark as a Spaniard’s, 
and the eyes themselves deep blue, like the hya- 
cinth flowers that in May grew on the river-bank 
far away from the city. The Cupid’s bow of her 
mouth was red and sweet, while her face had all 
the springlike colouring of an apple-blossom. 

The russet gown she wore, laced over a yellow 
bodice, fell open at the throat, and her father 
saw the warm whiteness of it and the exquisite 
curves of her rounded arms, for the sleeves were 
rolled high. 

He gave a low exclamation and drew his hand 
across his eyes as though dazzled. 

“What is’t, father?” the girl asked. “Art not 
well ?” 

“Aye, well enough, lass,” he replied half- 
roughly, following her into the room; “the sun 
was in my eyes — an’ hark’e! keep thee close to 


25 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


the house in future, keep thee close to the house. 
I will na have thee wandering past the shops, 
nor to Southwark neither! Dost heed me?” 

hear thee, father,” Joyce replied gently, 
cutting the rye loaf. ‘‘But it seemeth a strange 
command an’ a tiresome one withal. Thou didst 
ever let me go just as I wished, so I returned 
by sundown, an’ I wandered far, far from the 
town sometimes, following the river. Hast not 
seen the marsh-marigolds and brown-eyed Susies 
I have oft brought back to make the house gay? 
An’ last May-day dost not remember how I went 
miles and miles to find St.-John’s-wort, an’ green 
birch, an’ long fennel to hang above the door for 
luck? Yes, an’ I took the ferry to Greenwich 
last March, for there grow the first catkins. See, 
then, thou canst not have forgotten, nor the tale 
I told thee, of how I ran across the Queen’s swan- 
herd a-hunting for the young cygnets, and mark- 
ing them that they might not stray. Marry, I 
helped him capture two myself and told thee, 
yet thou didst not chide.” 

“Egad! I will do more than chide an’ thou 
goest again,” he answered, a dangerous red rising 
to his face ; “so do not bring me to’t.” 

26 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Joyce stepped round behind his chair and 
clasped her arms about his throat, for in some- 
what she loved the man, and ever her ways were 
coaxing. 

‘‘Give me thy reason, then,” she said with a 
little sigh. “I am no child, father.” 

“An’ that is my reason i’ faith. Thou art no 
longer a child. Mistress Joyce, an’ thou art too 
fair withal. Hast not heard ere this the gossip 
o’ the Queen’s Grace? ’Tis a worn story, but 
curse me if there be not enough wagging tongues 
to keep it fresh. Gad ! sweetheart ! in those days 
I had the devil’s own time, an’ last of all was 
run down like a fox to its hole by a scurvy pack 
of the law’s hounds. For no great sin, mark 
you, no great sin, as I view it ; naught the priest 
would not shrive me for easily enow an’ I filled 
his hand with part o’ the booty. See, then, a 
fox is a fox — he must get his living as best he 
can.” The man shrugged his square shoulders 
and set his strong white teeth hard in his under 
lip, then went on. “When things had almost 
reached their worst, an’ we were live men trapped 
— reckoning to be carrion on the morrow — they 
mended/* 


27 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


He rolled some dice softly in his hands and 
smiled. ‘‘So. Dost not know what happened 
then, small one? Marry! the great Queen is but 
a woman after all, an’ therefore caught through 
the eye like the rest. ’Twas my face brought 
me the luck o’ my life, Joyce, an’ thine is more 
beautiful. It shall bring thee all the things we 
dream of, aye, sell our souls for. Gold, an’ high 
fortune, an’ soft living, an’ who knows, lass, a 
title to thy name, perchance!” 

She laughed merrily. “Well, I am content to 
bide, and thou wilt have it so; but as for gold, 
1 fear me ’twill not come my way, nor high 
fortune, nor soft living. While as for a title,” 
with a little shake of her head, “as for a title! 
Heart o’ me! count not on that, good father,” 
she ended, leaving him. 

But there were others who had noted the girl’s 
unusual beauty. Far and wide she was called 
“The Lily of the Bridge.” 

How she came by the name was not certain, 
though some said ’twas old Brother Sebastian, 
a gentle monk from the ancient Dominican friary 
near the river, who first called her so. Few of 
his order were left, for the times had changed. 

28 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Yet a number of them passed the toll-house daily 
on their errands of mercy, and sometimes even 
stopped to rest there or ask for a draught of 
water. It was Brother Sebastian, in his rough, 
hooded cloak girdled by the knotted rope, and his 
old face sharp and ivory white from vigils and 
fastings, who stopped there oftenest. He grew 
to love Joyce, and wished her away from the 
keeping of such a dissolute father, for Daven- 
port maintained but an outward semblance of 
respectability. 

Now captured by a new idea, and fancying 
that in every man he saw one come to rob him 
of his daughter, the toll-taker guarded her with 
unreasonable watchfulness. 

He called himself a fool for not having seen 
before what a pearl was in his keeping; what 
price might not be bidden for it! “There was 
not the like of Joyce Davenport,” he said to him- 
self, “no, not in the kingdom.” 

Well had his own face served him; and hers 
— hers should bring him the best the country 
could give. He would live right merrily yet, 
and no gentleman of them all would know better 
how to spend a golden guinea. 

29 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


This daughter of his should be seen by the 
highest in the land, and to see her was to wor- 
ship her beauty and bid the highest price for it. 
Therefore, to the highest bidder she should go, 
to the topmost title and the heaviest purse in all 
England. ’Twas a game worth playing, one sure 
of success, as men were the same, old and young, 
and straightway lost reason for love. A game 
worth playing. But how to play it ? But where ? 
Difficult questions these, and they puzzled the 
handsome head of Dick Davenport as he stood 
by the tower through the long autumn day and 
collected the Queen’s tax. 

Inside the dark house Joyce pined for liberty. 
The days were weary, long, and unspeakably 
lonely. There were the dogs — three of them 
that she had found at different times wandering 
about the bridge lost and lean, and as desperately 
miserable as only homeless dogs can be — these 
were company, of course. They followed her 
so closely and watched her with such melancholy 
eyes, that she fancied they must understand her 
sad case. And there was her tambour-work, and 
the books of Latin ; yes, and the pigeons that flew 
to the upper windows. But oh! she longed to 

30 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


be away in the sunshine, longed to escape, and 
waited in patience and half-stifled hope for some 
change. 

Then one morning there came to the toll-man 
a thought that struck him as little less than an 
inspiration. He remembered there was a place 
near by frequented by the gay and wealthy people 
of the city. That was an inn on the Southwark 
side called “The Bear,’’ a resort of fashion even 
like the Paris gardens, but smaller, and in the 
grounds behind there was often bull and bear 
baiting. Ladies sometimes witnessed these sports 
accompanied by their gallant cavaliers; this was 
the very place, and Joyce should go with him 
to see the sights. 

“If she does not take the eyes of every man 
there from the play of the hour,” Davenport said 
to himself, “then the ways of the world have 
changed.” 

“Aye, my lass,” he cried, swinging the door 
open suddenly and looking in at his daughter, 
“thou hast been shut up long enow ; to-night will 
I take thee for an outing to Gillian’s Gardens 
back o’ the Tear Inn.’ Cheer up, then; thou 
needst some gayety! An’ thou’lt have a rare 

31 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


pleasant evening. There be hardly a gentleman 
in England — let alone of the Court — but finds his 
way to Gillian’s soon or late, an’ to-night’s to be 
a grand night. Beshrew me if there won’t be 
bear-baiting, and bull-baiting, and dancing ! 
Thou’st seen naught o’ life, sweeting, but thy 
father’ll show ’e ’tis worth living.” 

The girl stood listening with parted lips and 
quick-coming breath. She leaned back slightly 
against an old, strangely carved sea-chest — some 
wreckage washed ashore from Spanish caravel 
or Italian galley — and with one hand steadied 
herself against it. The dark background showed 
the delicate yet unyielding lines of her figure, the 
silvery aureole of her hair, the colour fading from 
her face. Her eyes dilated as she listened, and 
there came by slow degrees an expression on the 
red mouth that the man knew well and somewhat 
feared. 

‘T give thee thanks,” she said coldly, “but I 
will na go. I will na ever go. I am na one 
who delights in seeing a poor beast tortured. I 
will bide here in peace.” 

Davenport swore softly under his breath. Twice 
before in her life had she answered him with 

32 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


the same cool, determined spirit, and he knew 
her well. 

She would not alter or be easily broken. To 
use force was to ruin the thing he valued; coax- 
ing would not avail, and she was not to be 
affrighted nor intimidated. 

The man turned on his heel muttering a curse, 
and his face as he went out was white and 
very evil. 

He crossed to a shadowy corner of the tower, 
where he could watch the gate. 

His thoughts were in a tangle, and he raged 
at such opposition. To be baffled by her, a bit 
of a lass scarce eighteen. ‘‘By the rood!” he 
said half-aloud, “ ’twas for the last time.” 

Gnawing away at his long moustache fiercely, 
he planned afresh, and, to help these angry medi- 
tations, drew from a beaded pouch by his side 
a heavy pipe and some of that new weed that 
was worth its weight in silver. Then he smoked 
in silence. This, like all Davenport’s habits, was 
expensive and grew apace. “Gold was what he 
wanted and must have,” thought the man. As 
for collecting these paltry tolls — he loathed the 
task — and the harbour-mastership seemed far 
33 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


away as ever. For the girl, if she would not fall 
in with his wishes, then she should marry Gillian, 
or Jock Ferrier of the wine-shop next door, for 
both had wanted to wed her these many months 
and had been kept at arm’s-length with infinite 
trouble. ‘‘Dave Gillian” — he gave a short laugh 
— “there was a chuckle-head with a dull brain 
and a long purse, keeper and whole owner of the 
fashionable bear-garden! ’Twould answer an’ 
she be obstinate. Peradventure ’twould be even 
a better choice than Ferrier, who was keen-witted, 
over-bold, and dissipated, though freer with his 
money. But he’d wait — he’d wait.” So he stood 
thinking and savagely pulling at his pipe. 

Presently came Silas to go on duty. 

“There be rare doin’s at t’other end o’ bridge, 
maister,” he called. “Rare doin’s! There be a 
crowd gathered as I came by!” 

“What’s to do?” asked Davenport sullenly. 

“There be a juggler all dressed in brown cor- 
dovan leather, flecked with little gold tassels 
where ’tis laced. Zooks! but he tosseth knives 
till it maketh t’ blood stiffen in one! And there 
be red hoops an’ ivory balls he throws as well; 
an’ he doeth magic with a silken ribbon, maister, 
34 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


tying it in knots no sailor ever saw, and straight- 
ening it by a charm.” 

‘‘ ’Tis a tame show, and one fit for women,” 
said the other indifferently. 

‘Tame show or no,” returned the sailor, “it 
chilled the marrow o’ my bones to see him toss 
the long knives, and catch them when five were 
falling tines down! 

“But there be more to it,” he half-whispered, 
leaning toward Davenport. “He weareth a brown 
mask, and they do say ’tis some nohle in disguise. 
Beshrew me but he looketh like one, for he 
standeth full a head over any man around, and 
hath the strength of ten in him! The show be’th 
on till dark, so thou canst see for thyself!” 

“Ah, so?” said Davenport. “’Tis a strange 
tale; and yet I doubt me but what the fellow is 
some banished Court- jester. Hark’e ! Thou talk- 
est over-much, seest over-much, an’ hearest over- 
much. Attend to thy business, and there’ll be 
short time for thee to gaze open- jawed at some 
juggling fool or another till thy wry neck hath 
a creak in it. Be not late again or I’ll settle 
with thee.” 

Thus saying, he went indoors and sat heavily 
down. 


35 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Then a thought suddenly came to him. “Per- 
chance,” he said to himself eagerly, “an’ I take 
the lass to see this fellow — it might bring her 
to easier mood! They be odd things, women, 
an’ changeable as an April day. That far, an’ 
who knows? Mayhap a bit of coaxing, larded 
with soft words, might lead her on to the Gar- 
dens, then I’ll leave the rest with my beruffled 
lord of this or that. ’Tis worth trying, but it 
goeth against the grain.” Rising, he settled his 
doublet and made up his mind to act on the 
impulse. 

His little daughter was in her room looking 
down into the river and watching a soft, yellow 
mist that, smokelike, rolled in from the sea. 

“Ah, Joyce!” she heard him call half-gently. 
“I was harsh with thee; come, I will take thee 
for a stroll, sweeting. At bridge end is a fine 
show, they tell me, a sight that maidens may see, 
for ’tis just harmless juggling — no more nor 
less. Put on thy best gown, lass, to out walk 
with thy father, an’ in token that thy temper is 
fair again.” 

Joyce answered back gayly, and soon ran down 
from her room arrayed in a white cloth gown, 

36 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


and with a long cloak of hunter’s green tied 
about her throat. She pulled up the hood, and 
dropped her father a little courtesy. 

“ ’Tis all the bravery I own,” she said, ‘‘but 
’twill serve.” 

“Aye,” he answered. “Thou lookest like a 
lily coming out o’ green leaves.” 

So unhappiness was banished, and laughing 
and chatting they walked down the bridge, past 
the quaint bridge-houses with their tiny roof- 
gardens bright with flowers, and in and out 
among the people. 

The odd signs above the old shops swung rust- 
ily back and forth with low creaking, while the 
air was full of sounds of life, and fresh with a 
salt smell from the sea. Under the narrow arches 
the river surged and beat. Vessels from ports 
near and far passed up and down the dusky 
water, that at this hour was touched with gold 
and red from the western sun. There was a 
certain infectious gaiety in the air, for the peo- 
ple rested after the busy day, and the sailors 
sang their rondeaus, or whistled and called to 
the idlers on the bridge. 

Great trading-ships were making ready to go 

37 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


out at full tide; some to the old mysterious East, 
others to the new golden West, a few, perhaps, 
to the still, white North. Little wherries and 
punts went bustlingly back and forth with a 
great to-do for things so small. State barges 
with high gilded prows passed by, taking com- 
panies of Court gentlemen to Greenwich, and 
life aboard them was a bright-coloured thing set 
to much music and laughter. Many sails, either 
painted a vivid carmine or yellow, or left the 
way the weather had shaded them to black, brown, 
or tawny, were raised in the freshening evening 
breeze. 

Here and there the swans drifted homeward, 
like patches of floating snow. Down to the lower 
marshes they went, where was quiet and deep 
peace. Out on the docks a day’s work was draw- 
ing in, and weary ’longshoremen wheeled the 
last wine-casks from fast-emptying vessels, or 
piled heavy chests of tea, curiously marked bales 
of foreign silks and rugs, or boxes of spice, into 
shelter for the night. 

All this Joyce saw as she had seen it times 
without number. The wind blew in many a 
fragrant odour from the ships being unloaded, 

38 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


and a perfume of wine and leather, sandal-wood, 
coffee, and tobacco, all blended with the scent 
of the sea. 

Away yonder stood the gray old Tower amid 
its silvery shadows, raising its grim head to 
heaven, and holding inviolate the secrets of the 
years. No word did it give to the people of those 
whose hearts had been broken, or of those others 
who had been ‘‘put to silence” within its walls — 
but it stood as one who waits. The sun touched 
the ancient priory of St. Mary Overies, gilded 
the spires of the convent of Bermondsey, and 
there was but an after-glow lighting up the world 
as the two came upon a knot of sight-seers circling 
about the man Dick Davenport sought. 

Yes, there he was, the mysterious juggler, still 
playing for the amusement of the passing throng, 
and, doubtless, the better filling of his own wallet. 

He stood on a small cedar table, where lay an 
open case of long double-edged foreign knives, 
and he was — as Davenport noticed — a good head 
taller than any man around. 

As for his dress, it was sober brown, cut 
withal in the extreme fashion of the hour, and 
it followed the lines of his firmly knit form as 

39 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


though moulded upon it. His boots of soft tan 
colour rose to the mid-thigh, and were square 
and flaring at the top. His jerkin of leather, 
also, shone here and there where it was laced, 
with little gilt tassels, as the old sailor had said. 
He was belted with a girdle of dull gold, from 
which dangled a small toylike Venetian dagger. 
The hilt of this pretty thing glinted blue, as 
though set thick with turquoise. The linen at 
the man’s throat and wrist was smooth and fair, 
testifying to the ease with which he wrought his 
work. Upon his short, dark hair rested a jaunty 
peaked cap, holding one long pheasant’s feather. 

The pose of the player as he kept some ivory 
balls in midair was grace itself; still, it was his 
face the people watched, for there lay the mys- 
tery of him. His lower jaw, strong and beau- 
tifully turned, was shaven clean ; the mouth, firm 
and close, showed yet the faint indication of a 
smile, but across his eyes lay a mask, and none 
might say truly who looked from behind it. 

An ancient serving-man waited near the table 
holding a heavy cloak. The expression on the 
worn face was one of patience under great dis- 
tress of mind. He it was who collected the silver 


40 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


sixpences, groats, and threepenny bits after each 
performance — often from a fast-thinning crowd 
— and in truth his looks bespoke it a vastly un- 
welcome task. 

Davenport pushed through the mass of people 
to its innermost circle, holding Joyce fast by the 
cloak, so that she must needs follow. 

They drew up just as the juggler stooped to 
take his knives from their case. 

Next the girl stood a sailor all agape; a bare- 
foot, swarthy fellow he was, with hair burned 
almost yellow from the tropic sun. On one arm 
he held a wooden cage wherein were two home- 
sick paroquets that now and then uttered harsh, 
unhappy cries. Next again was a youth of most 
noble deportment, whose keen eyes missed noth- 
ing of interest that passed around him, and his 
boyish mouth changed as he gazed about at the 
motley crowd with a smile, now grave, now 
whimsical. 

All this Joyce saw in a dream, for she was 
only conscious of one tall and beautiful figure 
clad from top to toe in sombre hue, flinging 
from him straight and high into the air a dozen 
glittering, dangerous knives. 

41 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


She watched him breathlessly with eyes dark- 
ening, the pink coming and going in her cheeks, 
her hands clinging together till the rosy nails 
grew white. From her raised head the green 
hood slipped away, and in the golden evening 
light her hair made an aureole about her face. 
The handsome boy near by glanced at her again 
and again as one impressing a picture upon the 
memory. She stood as still as a lily in a wind- 
less garden, fascinated by the danger of the play 
going on. 

One little slip, one breath too much, ah! The 
juggler glanced down and his eyes caught the 
girl’s uplifted face. There was a quiver of his 
arm, and then a shower of knives rattled on the 
wooden table or fell to the bridge. 

Three he caught, and one grazed his cheek, 
or even more, for thq blood streamed down upon 
his collar. 

Joyce gave a low, half-checked cry, and pulling 
her kerchief out of its swinging pocket held 
it up. 

‘‘Quick! Thy face!” she said; “bind it up; 
oh, bind it up! Thou art welcome to the ker- 
chief; I need it not.” 


42 



SHE STOOD 


FASCINATED BY THE DANGER OF THE PLAY.” 



I t 



BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Then turning to her father, she caught his 
hand. “Take me home,’’ she said. “Take me 
home with thee; I like not such sights. Didst 
not see? He might have been blinded for life.” 

The juggler had leaned down and taken the 
tiny lace-edged square, which he pressed to his 
face. Now he leaped lightly from the table and 
stood beside Joyce. 

“I give thee thanks ; but trouble not thy pretty 
head about me, little maid,” he said. “Had I 
put out my life, ’twere a ne’er-do-weel gone, and 
not a better man.” 

Some voice in the crowd called out, “Go on 
with thy show. Sir Juggler! ’Tis not thy death- 
wound this time,” and there was much chattering 
and laughter, 

“I warrant ’tis not as deep as the Thames at 
low-water,” called another, “yet ’twill keep thy 
head cool, an’ save from leeching.” 

“I trow ’twill make but a paltry scar,” sneered 
a rough voice. “Finish thy show, knave. Art 
turned chicken-hearted ?” 

The green paroquets set up a screaming like 
files over a saw. 

Then the youth who stood next the sailor 

43 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


looked quietly around, and the hum of voices 
ceased. 

*Tray thee, go to thy homes, good citizens,” 
he said in a rich, far-reaching voice. ‘‘There 
will be no more knife-throwing to-night; the 
light has failed, see you ? Hast never heard this, 
‘He jests at scars who never felt a wound.’ ” So, 
laughing, he made his way through the people. 

“ ’Tis young Will Shakespeare!” said one, 
looking after the man. “A player from the 
Globe.” 

“ ’Tis Will Shakespeare, none else,” answered 
another. 

Thus they scattered noisily and went away as 
the dusk fell. 

Davenport and his daughter had long disap- 
peared, as had the juggler, while the old serving- 
man folded the table by some contrivance and 
carried it toward Bridge House. 


44 


DAVENPORT’S DECISION. WHAT 
THE BELL-MAN SAW FROM 
THE BRIDGE 




CHAPTER III 


J OYCE sat long at her window after her 
father had locked the outer door and gone 
to his favourite haunts. 

Persuasions had failed to change the girhs 
mind. She would not go to the bear-baiting. 
Then Davenport had named other places of fash- 
ion and amusement where the crowd was mixed 
from all classes. Chief among them was the 
‘‘Knave of Clubs/’ a popular inn on Bridge 
Street, which owned a ballroom waxed and pol- 
ished till it fairly mirrored the dancers. There 
might she learn to trip a coranto or galliard with 
the best of them, he said. But Joyce shook her 
head and would not listen. So he had gone out, 
muttering oaths between clinched teeth. 

Now she was alone, watching the moon rise. 
Up it came between the violet-tinted clouds, soft- 
ly luminous, unsubstantial, almost as though it 
were a big golden bubble floating out of the 
47 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


brown water. It transfigured the dingy places 
by the river-side, tipped with silver the Tower 
turrets, and shone pityingly upon the woful bur- 
dens raised on the spiked southern gates of the 
bridge. Two there were, looking stonily outward 
with unseeing eyes. 

The girl leaned into the sweet, dewy darkness, 
listening to a night-bird calling with mournful 
insistence. Now and again a little chill went 
over her; that was when she fancied she saw a 
knife fall with desperate swiftness; down it came 
and glanced across a man’s masked face turned 
toward her! 

Life seemed to have come to a stop with Joyce 
Davenport. The past was nothing; the future 
less. To live was only to see again, if but for 
a moment, that gracious figure all in dusky brown ; 
to hear him speak. 

‘‘Trouble not thy pretty head about me, little 
maid,” he had said. Oh, vain warning ! for what 
else was there in all the world to think or 
dream of? 

She chided herself grievously for having been 
over-bold in giving him her kerchief ; then smiled 
at the thought that he had it still. 



BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


By-and-by, as these things went through her 
mind, she suddenly remembered that there was 
the kerchief to be returned. ’Twas a dainty one, 
and broidered with little lilies. Then would she 
see him; or no — peradventure ’twould be the 
aged serving-man who would bring it. And her 
father might meet him and bid him about his 
business ; or, worse still, might he not come him- 
self — to-night— twon while she was dreaming 
thus — and seeing none about the toll-house but 
old Silas, leave the kerchief with him, and so 
depart? Twas over-late for that, perchance, for 
the moon was now above the Tower; yet she 
would away to the bridge to speak with the old 
sailor. 

Swiftly she slipped through the dark rooms; 
then, throwing back the window, called softly. 

Silas was dozing against the gate, even, in- 
deed, snoring unmelodiously from time to time; 
but he heard the girl’s voice instantly, and started 
toward her, his peg-leg making an echoing thud 
at each step. 

“How now, mistress,” he said, “is aught 
wrong?” 

“No, no! nothing is amiss,” she answered; 
49 • 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘‘but prithee tell me, good Silas, hast seen to- 
night a tall man, in high riding-boots with battle- 
mented tops, brown jerkin, and hat with pheas- 
ant’s feather? Think quickly, good Silas.” 

The sailor rubbed his eyes, yawned, and then 
pulled at his frowsy forelock. 

“Art sure ’twas a pheasant’s feather?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, yes!” she said, leaning toward him; “an’ 
thou couldst not mistake him for another in truth ; 
he is vastly tall and most comely. He hath a 
clean-shaven chin with a dimple fair in the centre. 
Rememberest thou now, Silas?” 

“Art sure of the dimple?” asked he labori- 
ously. 

“Oh, quite, quite sure, dear Silas! It is a 
dimple not to be forgotten. Pray thee, tell me 
if he spoke to thee and what he said.” 

“I saw him not,” answered the old man, smil- 
ing to himself in the dark. “An’ thoust best 
to bed, Mistress Joyce. ’Tis not for thee to be 
thinking of dimples in a man’s chin. Gadzooks ! 
thy father’d make short work o’ him an’ he 
crossed his path. Knowst thou not why he 
keeps thee so close, sweeting?” 

50 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 




“Nay, I know not. Tell me, then, Silas. I 
can guess no good reason, though my head aches 
with thinking.’’ 

“Why, then, he’d marry thee to some fine gen- 
tleman. Thou art not for every market. Dost 
never look in thy copper mirror, lass? There 
are no such eyes as thine in England!” 

“Thou art talking nonsense, good Silas I 
Where hast thou been to see the Court beau- 
ties? Marry, then, but the Queen herself — 
though she be not over-young — is most marvel- 
lous fair, r faith, an’ I had a few jewels and 
a silken gown, I would pass; thinkst thou not 
so? But, alas! I have naught but one gown of 
russet an’ one of white.” 

“Thou mayst have more yet. Aye, farthin- 
gales an’ fluted ruffs, an’ strings o’ pearls, an’ 
such falderals as the gentles wear, all when thy 
ship comes in. An’ when thou be’st stiff with 
gold lace, an’ bedecked so grandly, peradventure 
thou’lt forget Silas, who would give the last bit 
of timber in his old hulk just to serve thee. Wilt 
forget him, lass?” 

“Never, good Silas, never, should such a time 
come! But hast thou seen ?” 


51 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“Well-a-day !” Silas broke in. ‘"I trow thou 
wilt not, for thou hast a true heart. Didst hear 
of the great funeral on the morrow? Twill be 
the last of the old Earl of Oxford.” 

“Speak not of funerals to-night. I like not 
the subject.” 

“An’ why not, then? Tis to be a comely 
show, sweet mistress. Seven score of nobles fol- 
low i’ horseback, all in black velvet — ^belted 
knights, an’ knights of the garter, an’ knights 
of I know not what — an’ four-and-seventy foot- 
mourners come behind, one for each year of his 
life, all of ’em bearing staff-torches. An’ then 
the yeomen of the guard, an’ all the royal barge- 
men. ’Twill be a pretty show, I gainsay. Ask 
thy father to let me take thee, for thou needst 
some pleasure at thy time o’ life. 

“ ’Twill run through Fleet Street, an’ so 
round about to Westminster, where all the bish- 
ops an’ mitred abbots in England will meet it, 
let alone the Queen’s scholars and the choristers 
from St. Paul’s!” 

“Prithee be still, good Silas. Seest thou not 
a man yonder half in shadow ? I fancy he wear- 
eth high boots with battlemented tops. Ah, he 

52 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


cometh this way! An’ he asks aught, answer 
him civilly an’ thou desirest to please me.” 

Joyce drew back her flaxen head and held her 
breath to listen. 

Presently she heard a voice, the voice of the 
one who had thrown the knives, speaking to the 
sailor. There was a tone in it that brought the 
old man to an attitude of attention. He feared 
his master, but dare not disobey this stranger. 
They turned together to the window, and Silas 
looked within. 

“Art there. Mistress Joyce?” he said half-sul- 
lenly. “Here be one who must have a word 
with thee ; leastwise, would not be denied. 
Heaven send he be quick over it; thy father is 
not pleasant company when he returneth late.” 

The girl looked out and saw behind Silas the 
graceful figure of the juggler. He wore no 
mask, and in the moonlight his face was white 
like marble, and the long cut showed plainly 
from cheek to chin. 

“Thou hast led me a dance, little maid,” he 
said laughingly ; “I hunted thee up hill and down 
dale. By my faith thou art worth it! Come, 
tell me, why didst thou gaze at me so to-day? 
53 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Thine heart was looking through those wondrous 
blue eyes, and it set me a-tremble so that my 
knives went down like a shower of devils. By 
the saints ! I am not one to be so easily over-set, 
but would bank on tossing them before Queen 
Bess, herself, without a nerve quaking.'' 

Leaning against the casement, he covered the 
girl's small hands boldly with his own. “Look 
not so at me, an' thou wouldst have me keep a 
cool head, little maid. I am but mortal." 

“Who art thou?" she said softly. 

“Did I not tell thee then?" answered the man 
with his odd smile. “A ne'er-do-weel, as they 
of the North country say. A sport of Fortune, 
otherwise, one who had no fairy godmother at 
his christening, and so perforce missed the charm 
that might have held off evil. One who lived 
unwisely; a spendthrift who crowded the sweets 
of threescore years and ten into thirty, thereby 
hurting himself more than others ; and one withal 
who has sown as fine a crop of wild oats for his 
own reaping as any gentle — as any fellow in 
England." 

“Hast done evil deeds?" she asked with a 
quiver in her voice. “Is that why thou wearst 
54 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


the mask? If so, master juggler, why comest 
thou to me?’' 

‘‘Ah!” he answered warmly, looking down at 
her, “perchance I come because thou art the very 
opposite of all I am or ever will be. I believe 
not that like attracts like, but rather the reverse. 
Moreover, I could not banish thy face. I who 
at will have banished all thought and care along 
with the faces of those I wished not to remem- 
ber! Retribution may have overtaken me at last 
and printed thy face upon my heart to haunt 
me always. Marry! I saw more than thine eyes 
looking up at me through the yellow light — I 
saw thy soul. Peradventure ’tis but to ask thy 
prayers I come to-night. Thinkst thou so?” 

“Nay, I know not,” she said with a little trou- 
bled sigh, “though truly they are thine, whether 
thou wouldst have them or not. But tell me, 
hast been so very wicked? Hast ever killed a 
man?” 

The juggler gave a short laugh, and his face, 
bold, dare-devil, half-tender, bent toward her. 

“Aye,” he said, “that have I — three of them! 
I would I could have answered thee differently, 
but — this for my forgiveness — ’twas done in fair 
55 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


duelling, the chances being counted equal, though, 
unhappily, I was the better swordsman. At times 
men have no other road out of a difficulty, and 
at the worst ’tis a short and easy cut to death. 
Listen, then. I am like the prodigal son in this 
much, that I have journeyed into far countries 
and spent my substance in riotous living. ‘A 
short life and a merry one.’ ’Tis the song of 
the green-coat in the grass, and I have joined 
him at it. As for my sins, put down all those 
thou canst think of — save that of breaking faith 
— and thou wilt have a fair sum of them.” 

‘‘I will think no evil of thee,” she said simply. 
‘‘An’ dost not remember ’twas he who so jour- 
neyed into the far country that came home again 
and was forgiven ? And now, sir, go ; my father 
wishes not to have me awake when he re- 
turns.” 

“Dost fear what he will say and he finds me 
by thy window?” 

“Nay,” answered Joyce, “I have done no 
wrong ; why should I fear ? But go thou quickly, 
for truly he is a dangerous man to meet at times, 
and I fear for thee/' 

“Thou art the sweetest maid in England,” said 

56 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


the man passionately, “and I will surely see thee 
to-morrow.” 

“No, no!” she cried, throwing out her hands 
in protest. “Indeed, no; I am over-busy in the 
afternoon.” 

“Aye, so am I, for I ride to the Duke’s fu- 
neral ” 

“Then thou art a noble,” she said with quick 
thought. 

“Dost think so ?” he answered smiling. “After 
what I told thee? Why, what is’t to be noble, 
then, little maid? So I will tarry no longer, 
while I fain would. Methinks,” with a shrug, 
“this again is foreign to my nature. Hitherto 
I have tarried where I would, by daylight or 
starlight, where I would, with permission of the 
law or without it, as it happed. Egad! In this 
mood I have scant acquaintance with myself.” 

He leaned over and touched her hands lightly 
with his lips. “Thou art very beautiful,” he said, 
looking up at her. “Have many told thee so ?” 

The girl gave a little low laugh. “Marry, yes,” 
she said, “a few. My father, an’ Silas, the old 
sailor who takes the night-tolls, an’ Brother Se- 
bastian, a time-worn monk from the Dominican 
57 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


friary, when he was here, but he hath now gone 
to France. Yes, an’ Dave Gillian, an’ Jock Per- 
rier, though 1 would not listen.” 

‘‘Who are they, the last two?” said the man, 
swinging toward her. 

She gave a slight shiver. 

“I care not to speak of them; they be my 
father’s friends, not mine.” 

He smiled in the dark. 

“Then thou needst not speak,” he said. “But, 
remember, I shall see thee on the morrow, come 
rain or shine, for I am without the virtue of 
patience. Fare thee well till then, and dream 
not of falling daggers — or yes, thou mayst; for 
then by the Saints’ grace thou wilt dream of me” 

Down the bridge he went, with light, buoyant 
step, and the girl watched him till he passed 
into the gloom beyond, then sighed, and pressed 
her two hands against her heart. 

“I wish not to have him return,” she said, 
“an’ yet I do; never have I seen such another, 
for all he doth so belittle himself. Ah me ! twice 
have I heard of the Duke’s funeral within an 
hour, and methinks ’twas a bat that flew above 
our heads as we talked. I like not such sorry 
omens.” _ 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Twelve struck, and as Joyce listened, three men 
came past the bridge-tower, arms locked to keep 
themselves upright. Occasionally the one in the 
centre would crumple down and, after a parley, 
be taken onward again. They sang in different 
key, but with apparent enjoyment, an old hunt- 
ing-song : 

“ Come, merry, merry gentlemen, 

An* haste thee all away. 

For we will hunt the jolly, jolly fox 
At breaking o’ the day.” 

The listener knew well whose high tenor it 
was that held the sweet top notes. She closed 
the window and waited. 

Presently there was the sound of Silas sleepily 
greeting the toll-taker. 

‘Ts’t thou, good Master Davenport? Odso! 
’Tis high time; my bones are warped with wait- 
ing in the wind for thee, an’ ache to the marrow. 
Keep thee on thy legs, then; thou hast no more 
stiffening in thee than a rag o’ sea-weed. Thou’lt 
sleep i’ thy boots to-night. Nay, hang not on 
my neck, but port thy helm an’ steer straight. 
Marry! thy doublet’s in sorry plight — ne’er lace 
nor tag to it, an’ thou never worest that rolled- 
59 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


brim hat away; some knave hath thine, I’ll war- 
rant, an’ the best o’ the bargain. Steady then, 
maister. Ste-ady then; breakers ahead! Mind 
thee, ’tis but a peg on my weather-side, an’ t’other 
one, starboard leg, ’s a bit bowed out. Ste-ady 
then!” 

So they lumbered in, the door shut sharply, 
and while the old sailor latched it, Joyce sought 
her room with fast-beating heart and misty eyes. 

“I owe him naught,” she thought bitterly, 
‘^neither respect nor obedience, though I would 
’twere possible to give him both.” 

Next night when the world grew quiet the 
juggler came to the little shadowy window, and 
again old Silas listened to voices fresh and sweet, 
and brimming over with a melody of youth. 

So it went till two weeks had gone by. Ever 
the old sailor saw his mistress come to the case- 
ment after the dark fell, and wait for one who 
never failed her. 

But there came a night when, after the tall, 
brown figure had gone, another came — one bent 
and spare — yet nervously quick in movement. 
He glided from out the shadow, and went stealth- 
ily toward the toll-house; then stopped, looking 
6o 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


up and down. Seeing the sailor near by, he 
crossed to him and touched him on the arm. 

“I would speak with Mistress Joyce Daven- 
port — she who talked with my master but lately.” 

’Tis not an hour for any to speak with her,” 
said Silas gruffly. “I like not these doings, 
neither thy master’s nor thine. I know him for 
the thrower of balls and knives at bridge-foot. 
Marry, I would end it an’ I had the heart; the 
little lass says naught, but she looketh at me with 
eyes that plead. Yet I would kill him an’ he 
played her false. ’Tis a very coil. Best get thee 
gone. See you! an’ the toll-man happens home 
early to-night, the devil’s own temper’ll bear him 
company.” 

“I fear not, an’ indeed ’tis not near the stroke 
of eleven. I pray thee call thy mistress. Thou 
art no judge of my need to see her. Good master 
toll-man, I pray thee!” 

Silas noted the trembling voice and saw by 
a flickering link at the gate that the old face 
was drawn and sharp with some intense feeling. 

‘'Bide thee under yon gable, then, an’ I will 
call the lass. But I be an old fool for my pains. 
Still, an’ thou make not short work, I will shut 
the casement.” 

6i 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘‘As short as I can, Heaven knows,’’ answered 
the other, “but ’twill take a little time.” 

Joyce came again hastily, fearing she knew 
not what. From the velvet hood over her head 
her face looked out, white and flower-like, and 
a candle she held, shaded by one hand, threw 
shadows up and over it. 

“This one also,” said the sailor, with a jerk 
of his thumb backward, “would have a word with 
thee. ’Tis coming to a pass. Bid him be quick. 
I want no broken heads to bind when thy father 
comest back.” 

The girl saw a thin, dark form and a head 
of snowy hair worn in a queue; then she blew 
out the light. 

“Thou art Mistress Joyce Davenport?” said 
the man nervously. 

“Aye,” she answered, “I am the toll-master’s 
daughter.” 

“They call thee hereabouts ‘The Lily of the 
Bridge,’ and by vastly good right.” 

Joyce put her hands to her ears and laughed 
lightly. 

“Go to! go to! good gentleman. Thou art 
surely past making pretty speeches. ’Tis late. 

62 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


I would be through an’ to my room. Hast any 
word of import? If not — ah! — is’t so, then? I 
do remember now. Thou art he who stood by 
the table of knives — is’t not so? Speak on, 
quickly. Hast brought a message?” 

‘‘No message, sweet lady, but in truth a word 
of import. My master hath been here each night 
for two weeks, as I count; sometimes but for a 
little space, again for longer. He doth not be- 
fool old Michael. He hath made love to thee, 
thou canst not deny it.” 

The lovely face in the hood grew rosy. “Try 
not my patience,” she said; “thy business had 
best not touch such matters.” 

“Nevertheless, I spoke truth. He hath made 
love to thee, and thou — thou hast bewitched him 
till I know him not. Now, hark’e! Dost know 
the name of him who stands on London Bridge 
at sundown and juggles for the people’s sport?” 
A ring of suppressed wrath sounded in the words. 
“Hath he acquainted thee with his name, good 
Mistress Davenport?” 

The man could see two little hands cling to 
the wooden sill, tight, tight. 

“Aye, I know his name,” she answered, 

63 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘‘though he told me not. Look you, I saw the 
passing of the great Duke’s funeral, and the 
gentles who followed clothed in black velvet. 
Thy master rode with them, unmasked. One 
near me in the crowd pointed to him jestingly 
and said, ‘Yonder goes the young Lord of Yel- 
verton, who hath squandered more gold crown 
pieces and rose-nobles than any dandy of them 
all, from London to Land’s End.’ ’Twas so I 
learned thy master’s name, good sir.” 

“Dost know, then, why he playeth by the south 
tower?” 

“Nay!” she cried with soft eagerness. “Nay, 
tell me, I pray thee; ’tis best I should know.” 

“Listen, then,” answered the man, with a quick 
glance around. “He thou knowest as the juggler 
is indeed the young Lord of Yelverton. Soft, 
I would not be overheard, and the watch cometh 
by. Now, again, ’tis also true he hath played 
fast and loose with two goodly fortunes. See 
you, when he came of age there were none to 
advise or control. ’Twas in this wise: My lord 
and my lady — Heaven rest them — died within 
a short space of each other, leaving no lawful 
guardian for the lad. There was not one in 

64 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


England near of kin, therefore the Crown ap- 
pointed Lord Dudley to the care of the young 
master and estates. My lord troubled but little 
over the matter, and the lad grew up without 
control of any, a bit wild, yet sweet in temper. 
When at one-and-twenty he came to his own (an’ 
there were vast lands in France as well, for my 
lady had been a French woman), he made short 
work of all the gold that had been storing for his 
pleasure. 

“I canst not tell thee how it went, but ’twas 
like water, through a sieve, or sand through the 
fingers. The whole world was his friend then, 
though perchance none cared for him, for him- 
self alone, but just old Michael. 

^The lad had ever been ungovernable save by 
his mother’s gentleness, and there were plenty 
to lead him from her memory. It went like a 
fairy-tale. Mistress Davenport, for my master 
was as much at home in France as England, and 
everywhere had a gay company at his heels. He 
lived like a prince of the blood, and when the 
foreign moneys were spent, saddled the home 
estates with grievous debt. When all went the 
same road, he shipped to America with some 

65 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

of Sir Walter Raleigh’s men, I following 
ever. 

“ ’Twas upon that long voyage that my lord 
learned from a queer Indian fellow of the East — 
brown-limbed and supple as willow — the curious 
tricks of throwing balls and knives — aye, an’ 
many another folly which goeth for magic. 
’Twas a pastime when the sea lay like a blue 
mirror, and the sun warmed idle sails and a 
quiet deck.” 

The old servant stopped breathlessly and drew 
his hand across his eyes as though to dispel some 
vision. 

‘‘Have patience, sweet lady. The story is hard 
to unravel. We returned again to England after 
a year of wandering in the strange New World, 
an’ ’tis now thou needst listen. Not long since 
came word that an old friend of Lord Yelverton’s 
father, one Frazer of Dundee (a dour man, an’ 
o’er-strange in many ways), was dead, an’ had 
bequeathed half his mighty hoard of wealth to 
my master. Ah ! but there it did not end. There 
were conditions, mark you.” 

The trembling voice broke, and in the pause 
came the sound of Joyce Davenport’s heart beat- 
66 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

ing quick, quick, like a bird against cage- 
bars. 

‘Tull well did old Frazer of Dundee know 
my Lord Harry and his spendthrift ways. The 
conditions were these, therefore, as the man-of- 
law read, I listening also: 

“ ‘When Lord Henry Yelverton, by the craft 
of his hand, earneth twenty golden guineas in 
the space of one month, then shall he enter into 
full possession of half the land and moneys men- 
tioned in the said will; provided, also, that he 
wed upon the same day the niece of Donald 
Frazer (who was also his ward).’ 

“This, Mistress Davenport, read the man-of- 
law in my hearing, with much mouthing of words 
that have slipped my memory. My young lord 
laughed long, and as at a jest when he heard. 
‘I have a craft, sir lawyer,’ he said, ‘an honest 
one in sooth, whereby I can earn the gold right 
merrily if so be Michael will but pass around 
his chapeau. But I doubt me ’tis such an one 
as would have pleased the sainted Scot.’ 

“ ‘No special craft is specified in the document,’ 
said the man-of-law. 

“ ‘Then was I born under a lucky star I But 

67 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


the maid ! Beshrew me ! Why did he throw in 
the maid? Couldst not have put in a word to 
save a man? I beseech thee, sweet lawyer, draw 
me her picture. An’ it be not to my liking. I’d 
let the King’s crown go by before I’d wed her.’ 
These, fair lady, were his very words.” 

Joyce gave a little laugh and caught the old 
man’s arm. 

‘'Said he so?” she cried. “Art sure?” 

“Aye, an’ that was a short month back. He 
hath earned the gold, but he hath also seen thee. 

“But yestere’en said he thus to me, in all earn- 
estness, ‘The game is up, my trusty Michael, and 
I am where I was before.’ ” 

“Be quick,” she said breathlessly. “I see a 
shadow yonder. Mayhap the watch returneth, 
or thou hast wearied Silas, or ’tis my father.” 

“Have patience,” he panted. “This said my 
master: ‘There is no heart left in me to go to 
Scotland and wed old Frazer’s ward. A plague 
on him for throwing in the maid. ’T would plant 
a thorn in every golden rose-noble of them all. 
Nay, then, I will not wed her, for my heart hath 
found its heritage here on London Bridge; a 
pearl, Michael, washed up by old Father Thames, 
68 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


that all the world passed by unseeing. And ’tis 
the little maid of Davenport that may be my 
Lady of Yelverton an’ she will, though there be 
not a groat behind the title.’ 

“See, then, mistress, ’tis on thy pity I throw 
myself. Take him not at his word. Indeed, 
’twould be his undoing. Dost not understand 
’tis the turn of the tide with him now? With 
the Scottish wealth all debts could be wiped away 
from the old castle, and the name kept pure in 
England. And thy father, knowest thou not he 
lived but by the grace of the Queen? He is a 
felon, though free. ’Tis a marriage not to be 
entertained, even if in truth he meant his words. 
Is it not enough that he play to the people, while 
I scorn the money I take ? Have pity, sweet lady, 
for I know his moods. He is in deadly earnest 
to-day, an’ thou only const save him. An’ thou 
turnst him off lightly, then perchance will he 
away to the North country and trouble be ended.” 

“Go,” she said, looking out into the old, white, 
eager face. “I will not answer thee now; it 
needeth thought. My father speaketh with Silas 
at the gate. Hasten, hasten!” 

Presently Davenport came stumbling to the 

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BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


door. He called in quick, angry fashion for 
Joyce. 

‘‘Who is it that talkst with thee after I be 
away? Hark’e, make no excuse.’^ 

“It is my Lord of Yelverton,'' answered the 
girl in her soft way. “Hast aught against him, 
father? Thou dost know his name surely; ’tis 
an old one in the country.’^ 

“Lord Yelverton!” he said thickly. “Is’t so? 
Dost mean it? How earnest thou to meet one 
of title? Thou hast been a caged beauty of late, 
also.” 

“Thou knowst I never speak aught but truth,” 
she said gravely. 

“Aye, little one, thy word is thy bond always, 
but report said ’twas the brown juggler at bridge- 
foot who had found thee out.” Then his face 
changing: “In any case, ’twill not do. Mistress 
Joyce; ’twill not do; Yelverton hath not a sou 
to his title. There is Gillian. See thou dost 
not turn him away when he comes on the mor- 
row. He is a good fellow, though no gentle. 
Speak him fair, I bid thee. He is rich — Dave 
Gillian — rich, rich. As for this spendthrift young 
noble — hast made love to thee, sweetheart?” 


70 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


faith/' answered the girl, “he spoke some- 
what of love." 

“An' asked thee to marry him, I'll swear? If 
I could afford time, I couldst wed thee to the 
greatest of them all. He asked thee to marry 
him, then, did he, lass?" 

“Peradventure," she said with a laugh that 
ended in a sob. Then turning, she threw her 
arms about the man's throat, with a sudden soft 
violence that half-sobered him. “Oh, father," 
she cried, “I desire not to marry any one of 
them if thou wilt but be kind an' have me bide 
with thee. Let us away from London Bridge. 
I am weary of the crowd ever going by, an' of 
the endless noise an' turmoil. The bridge is worn 
and breaking; soon will the Queen have it re- 
built grandly, so say the gossips. I am weary, 
weary of it — of the sights of it — and the dread- 
ful heads blackening in the sunlight. Thou mayst 
not always have the toll-house. Let us away, 
then, now, to some quiet place; to the new 
country, dear father. The ships pass out at 
morning and evening. Oh, say thou wilt go 
with thy little Joyce, an' speak no more of 
marrying." 


71 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Davenport shook her away, but half compre- 
hending the drift of her words. 

“Tut, tut!” he said. “Thou art gone daft; an’ 
thou always wert a strange maid. To thy bed 
and rest, to thy bed and rest!” 

The girl went slowly away to her room and 
stood looking out at the wide, dark river, dappled 
here and there with silver from the late rising 
moon. Down her face fell a rain of tears, un- 
heeded, and she pressed her hand against her 
heart to still its heavy beating. A deadly de- 
spair crept over her, numbing all clear thought, 
all possible reasoning. She was as a fly caught 
in a web, and that has given over fluttering its 
wings. Her father had reached the limit of his 
temper; to-morrow would find him ready to do 
as he promised. He had been dicing heavily of 
late and losing. The old restless longing for 
a free life of his own wild choosing was upon 
him again, and maddened him by day and night. 
He would brook no more defiance to his will, 
no more delay. 

She stood there by the window, a slender, un- 
wavering figure, with hands clasped tightly be- 
hind. Now and then a tremor ran through her 
72 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


which, passing, left her stiller than before. The 
hours struck from the big solemn bell in St. 
Paul’s, and by-and-by the city slept save where 
the angels of birth or death hovered, or where 
crime held carnival. 

‘There is no other way,” she said at last, half- 
aloud, “yet I would, I would there were. Dave 
Gillian !” with a catch in her breath, “Dave 
Gillian! Oh, I needed not that! To-morrow 
night at nine o’ the clock will he come again, 
my Lord of Yelverton, an’ I might go with him 
an’ I would. Nay, ’t would be but a selfish love 
an’ I went. I can remember his words, though 
I understand them not: Two roads lie before 
me, little maid: one dark and tiresome, even 
monotonous to desperation; the other through a 
green country, where the air is golden an’ the 
sky the shade of thine eyes. Thou wilt be by 
my side there, an’ if joy comes, ’twill be greater 
with thee to share it; an’ if sorrow, then I’ll 
take thy part as well as my own. So, sweetheart, 
’tis a fair journey lies in that direction. Wouldst 
throw in thy lot with a strolling juggler who 
hath but love to give thee ?’ ” 

No, no ! There was no time for thought, and 

73 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


’twas needless, for her mind was firmly set. 
Love was not love that harmed the thing it wor- 
shipped; yet, all possibility of life in the old 
house by the north tower was over. 

Tying the green cloak about her, she went 
silently down the leaning stairs, through the quiet 
room and out into the darkness. One of the 
dogs followed, a small, tangle-haired thing with 
eyes great and melancholy. 

The moon was sinking. Joyce stood looking 
at it all, her hands clasped, her head thrown back. 

“ ’Tis a beautiful, beautiful world,” she said, 
as though to the small dog pressing his rough 
head against her gown. “Methinks ’tcould not 
be fairer, even beyond — ” Then, stooping, she 
petted the trembling animal. ‘‘Thou art a good 
little friend,” she said, “a good little friend, in 
sooth. But thou canst not bear me company to- 
night. Nay, plead not. I will not let thee come. 
Away to thy corners, away, away!” 

The girl watched till he turned toward the 
house in sad perplexity, whimperingly and with 
little speed. 

The bridge was quiet now and almost deserted ; 
here and there a shadowy form of belated traveller 
74 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


on horse or afoot flitted by, half-stealthily as 
it seemed, out of the gloom and into the deeper 
gloom again. 

No twinkling candle shone from the house 
windows, but on the bridge-towers flamed the 
dying links. A speck of red light swaying here 
and there in the distance showed where the watch 
went by. 

The lapping of the river against the piers, and 
in and out among the great half-broken sparlings, 
sounded strangely loud and mournful, as it never 
did by day. 

The old bridge bell-man — he who rang the 
south-tower bell at high tide, that the ships going 
to sea might lose no minute to their advantage — • 
stood alone leaning against one of the low stone 
parapets and watching the water. For years he 
had been about the bridge, and there was no hour 
of the night or day, so the people gossiped, that 
he might not be discovered between Southwark 
side or London just looking out on the river. 
Some said it had stolen his wits away, the ebb 
and flow of it, and that at full of the moon he 
was quite mad. But it was not so. He was wise 
in his day and generation, the old bell-man, and, 
75 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


seeing much, said little. Albeit he was a firm 
old Puritan, who gloried too greatly in taking 
no pleasure out of life, and who remembered and 
muttered to himself at times too many of the 
anathemas written by David, King of Israel. 

He started, half-afraid, as Joyce went swiftly 
by him in her fluttering white gown, for at first 
he thought it was a spirit. The spirits of those 
whose bodies lay in the river or were floated out 
to sea often haunted the place in the little hours, 
so report said. Still, one had never startled him 
before, so chiding his fancies and with a sudden 
tightening of the heart as at a presentiment of 
evil, he followed the white figure, closer and 
closer, slipping from shadow to shadow noise- 
lessly. 

Not far off there were some steps unsteady 
with age and worn in hollows that led to the 
water. 

These the girl ran down swiftly, and unfast- 
ened a shallow punt that lay moored to them. 

From above, the bell-man watched her untying 
the knotted rope. As she stepped into the boat 
and pushed off, the low moon came out from a 
bank of clouds, bright and golden, and showed 
76 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


him plainly it was Joyce Davenport. He knew 
her well, and the beautiful outline of her face 
with the waving silvery hair about it stood out 
plainly as a star in the dark. 

The bell-man called in his worn and shaking 
voice that went echoing faintly over the water, 
but if she heard she did not heed. 

Then a nameless dread of something wofully 
wrong became a certainty to him. Davenport 
was a fierce and dangerous man, fearing neither 
God nor the devil, and maids, even the gentlest, 
were not always easy of management. Even this 
one, who was sweet and gracious to all, even 
to him, the cross-grained old ringer of the bridge- 
bell, might have been tried beyond her strength 
and so, peradventure, would escape her father’s 
ruling in her own way. 

The thoughts flashed through his mind as he 
stood a moment in bewilderment. 

Then, on a sudden, he ran along the water- 
way to where a small ferry made anchor for the 
night. Roughly rousing the sleepy ferry-man, 
he bid him put out, and told him why. Together 
they pulled the oars, following the little floating 
punt. 


77 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


The girl stood quite still and let the boat fol- 
low the tide — out it went, out and out, below 
the narrow, dangerous arches under the bridge; 
beyond where the river rippled on, broad and 
dark and quiet. The men saw her standing, tall 
and white. Then, with a little impulsive move- 
ment, she stepped to the edge of the small craft, 
and so into the river with her arms out and her 
face turned upward. The water eddied and rip- 
pled, eddied and rippled. 

The ferry-man swore an oath under his breath, 
and the ferry shot forward with mighty strokes 
of his strong young arms, for he, too, had seen 
it was Joyce Davenport. 

The old bell-man prayed aloud to his God. 

Still no speck of white rose through the dark 
water. The ferry-man waited half a moment, 
scanning it breathlessly for some sign, then leapt 
over and dived. 

When he rose, he had Joyce in his arms. The 
bell-man helped draw them in with his knotty, 
shaking hands. 

‘Te she dead, think you?” he asked hoarsely, 
as the other loosened his hold on his still burden 

78 



“SHE STEPPED TO THE EDGE OF THE SMALL CRAFT 


ff 




A^jLJkA 




BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


and laid it on the bottom of the boat. ‘‘Be she 
dead, lad?” 

“Marry, no, thou old fool!” he said, shaking 
the drops from his hair like a rough water-dog. 
“She hath not had time. Women do not die so 
easily ; they be hard to kill. Gad !” leaning over, 
“ ’twere a pity to have aught so fair as this lass 
o’ Davenport’s rot i’ the river till Judgment Day.” 

“Dost know her, then?” said the other. 

“Aye, there is no river-man but knows her,” 
he answered shortly. “Row away, old bell-ringer ; 
we’d best have her home; the air grows chill.” 

“She be dead, I think,” he repeated quaver- 
ingly; “I see no breath or stir of life about her. 
She be dead, master ferry-man, an’ in her sins. 
The Lord forgives not those who take their own 
lives.” 

“Damn thee for a croaking raven!” said the 
ferry-man hotly; “row on an’ hold thy tongue. 
’Tis a swoon, come on belike afore she touched 
the river. Many a one drownth so; goes down 
an’ comes up an’ neither struggles nor fights for 
breath because they be not conscious. I’ll gain- 
say she hath no water in her lungs, but is swoon- 
ing.” 


79 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


As he spoke, Joyce stirred and then lifted her- 
self up. Her eyes were troubled and questioning 
as she looked from one face to the other, yet she 
did not speak. 

‘‘Thou mad young thing,” muttered the old 
bell-man, patting her hand gently. “ ’Tis thou, 
Joyce, thou mad young thing. See, then, why 
didst do it, wench? Our days are in the Lord’s 
hands. Tis not for us to cut them short. An’ 
it had not been for yon ferry-man, thou wouldst 
ha’ been at the bottom o’ Thames by now.” 

“An’ in heaven, good master bell-man,” she 
answered faintly, smiling at him. “Dost not 
think so?” 

“Nay, verily,” he returned grimly ; “more like- 
ly in perdition, with other souls that have fore- 
stalled the Lord’s calling, an’ slipped their trou- 
bles so.” 

She shuddered. “I know not. Perchance thou 
art right. I thought not of it so, nor did it 
trouble me. Perchance, indeed, thou art right. 
Yet, I would thou hadst let me go; it could not 
be worse than what will come here.” 

“Fret not for what will come. This be no 
way out o’ it,” he answered. “Art cold ?” 

8o 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


'‘Not so cold,” she said, trembling a little, “as 
full o’ fear. Take me not home, good bell-man, 
I pray thee. Take me not home.” 

“Why, then, home is the best place for 
wenches,” he said. “The Lord will keep thee 
safe an’ thou dost do right.” 

“Dost think so?” she said doubtfully. 

“Aye,” he said. “I know so, little maid. I 
know so for certain.” 

The ferry-man leaned over, wrung the water 
from her skirts, and wrapped his coat about her. 

“We will soon be in,” he said. “Marry, why 
didst give us such a start. Mistress Joyce? ’Tis 
no way for a lass to die. Hadst seen them drawn 
out o’ the river the way I oft have, ’twould cure 
thee o’ the fancy to go by way o’ the water. 

“There was one last week, now — she were thy 
age or thereabout — an’ had dropped off West- 
minster Bridge three weeks past, all for some 
love-quarrel. We found her i’ the marshes, an’ 
they said she had been a comely wench. By 
Harry! an’ thou couldst ha’ seen her then! Her 
matted hair, sand-filled and rolled wi’ sea-weed 
— aye, an’ torn by the fishes. Her eyes ” 

“Nay, nay !” Joyce cried faintly, throwing out 

8i 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


her hands, ‘Hell me not, master ferry-man; I 
would not dream of it. Peradventure, I have 
been wicked, and it may be sin to take one’s life, 
yet I thought not of it so.” 

The ferry-man smiled. “I would not have 
thee try it again,” he said eagerly. “ ’Twere 
rare beauty thrown away. Some man would 
break his heart or die unwed — mayhap, many o’ 
them, for what thou canst tell.” 

“I doubt it, master ferry-man,” she returned 
gently. “Methinks men are not made so.” 

The ferry brushed against the slippery stair, 
and the men helped her alight. 

She went up a step or two, then turned and 
looked down at them. “I thank thee both,” she 
said, “for thy kindness. I shall go straightway 
home.” 

“I will take thee, Mistress Joyce,” answered 
the Puritan suspiciously; “thou art best watched 
there.” 

“Nay,” said the girl, shaking her head, “I will 
do no more evil to-night, and would go alone. 
Say nothing, I pray you, of this hour to any.” 

The two men watched her as she rose slowly 
up the uneven stair, holding her clinging gown 
82 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


so she might not stumble. Then the ferry-man 
made fast his boat and went off, for there were 
yet two hours for sleep. But the gray old bell- 
man crept up the narrow way and stood watching 
till he saw Joyce pass Silas, sound asleep on his 
chair by the north gate, and so enter the toll- 
house. 

Even then he waited anxiously, leaning by 
one of the parapets. ‘The mad young thing,’" 
he muttered softly to himself now and then, “to 
throw life away at its bloom. 

“Dick Davenport is at the root o’ this, the 
black heart! Marry, an’ it had been he who 
dropped into the Thames, I would ha’ let him 
bide — aye, let him bide an’ sink to the bottom — 
the deeper the better. But she? Nay, verily, 
though in the river or out of it, she would be 
the Lord’s, an’ He would judge rightly, for o’ 
such be the Kingdom of Heaven.” 

So he watched the tide and the toll-house till 
it was time for the ringing of the south bell, 
and dawn came up the river in a soft gray mist 
touched with gold. 


83 



JOYCE REFUSES TO OBEY 


I 


I 



CHAPTER IV 


I T was high noon when Davenport awoke from 
his sound sleep. The warm September sun, 
streaming through the prismed glass, sprinkled 
the dim little room with flecks of colour, and fell 
full into the man's blue, black-lashed eyes, that 
were heavy and bloodshot from the night's ca- 
rouse. His thick auburn hair, touched with sil- 
ver at the temples, lay on his disordered collar 
in tangled waves, yet his face, which no dissipa- 
tion reddened, was clear-cut as a cameo and of 
much the same creamy tint. The years had but 
added to his unusual physical beauty by broad- 
ening and knitting his figure more firmly, though 
perchance they had warped and discoloured his 
soul. 

Some memory of the night came unpleasantly 
to him as he stretched and drew himself up on 
the wide bench where Silas had left him over 
night. .With a muttered oath he thrust first one 

87 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


hand and then the other deep into the pockets of 
his doublet. Then he laughed — a short, mirth- 
less laugh, that echoed through the toll-house and 
out on the river, an evil sound to hear. 

“Not a sou!” he said, biting the words short. 
“Not a tinker’s groat! an’ I had ten rose-nobles 
an’ a double handful o’ silver bits at the last 
winning.” Then he gnawed at his silky mous- 
tache and bent his brows as he tried to follow 
some thought. “Who was’t turned the dice next ? 
Now, who was’t? Aye, I mind me! Ferrier o’ 
the wine-shop. The trickster! Damme, if they 
were not loaded! The luck turned too much on 
a sudden. 

“Gillian was there, too; devilish owl-eyed an’ 
devilish sober and sly, keeping all the small wit 
he has about him. Staking naught himself, but 
over-anxious to lend me more gold when mine 
failed. 

“S’death! When such a fellow would lend 
you money, watch him, watch him ; there’s meth- 
od in his madness. 

“ ’Twill cost Gillian somewhat to marry the 
maid. But he hath grasped the knowledge o’ 
that. He’s not my choice, neither. I would ha’ 
88 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


wed her to a gentleman^ for I like the breed best. 
Marry, these men o’ the blue blood, how cold an’ 
polished an’ hard they be. Like steel. Steel that 
hath a keen edge on’t. I would ha’ wed her to one 
o’ them, though not such as Yelverton, God wot. 
He hath no credit, even with the Jews.” Then 
he smiled grimly. ‘‘Beshrew me! Davenport,” 
he said, ‘‘thou dost forget thou art but a poor 
devil of a toll-taker. Who art thou to pick an’ 
choose? Take the luck the gods send, an’ give 
thanks. Gillian’s as good as another, mayhap, 
an’ ’tis well to have a rich fool ever at one’s 
elbow. So!” reflectively, “he hath the Gardens, 
the play-tables, the dance-room, to say naught 
of a chain o’ houses by Billingsgate, not one o’ 
which the watch dare go nigh after nightfall. 
’Twill serve, for a ‘fool and his money be soon 
parted,’ an’ that’s a true word, though I know 
not whether it be Solomon or young Will Shake- 
speare who spoke it.” 

Rising, the man straightened himself and strode 
to the narrow stairway. 

“Art above there, Joyce?” he called. 

“Yes, father,” she answered, coming from her 
room. “I have been feeding the pigeons and did 
89 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


not know thou wert awake. Shall I get thee 
thy breakfast?” 

‘‘Nay, I care not for’t. I have just roused. 
Thou canst lay me out fresh linen, an’ my buff 
jerkin, an’ nether hosen, for I shall take a dip 
i’ the river ; but first come thee here, lass ; I would 
speak with thee.” 

Joyce came down the creaking stair slowly and 
entered the little living-room which the noon sun 
was brightening. 

Davenport turned to her with impatience. 
“Why dost not hasten?” he said sharply. 
“Egad!” with a start, looking closely into her 
face, “what hath whitened thee so? Art ill? 
The plague is about the river-streets, an’ two 
merchantmen from the East have it aboard an’ 
are forbid the harbour.” 

“Nay,” she answered with a little flickering 
smile, “nay, I am not ill, father. Have no fear 
o’ me. But one cannot always command a colour. 
’Tis a thing not greatly to be depended on. A 
sleepless night will blanch it, a sudden start, even 
a heartache — thou knowst it.” 

Davenport gave a shrug. “Thou art wrong 
there,” he said cynically. “There be Court beau- 


90 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


ties who hold the secret o’ keeping it better than 
that. Aye, an’ wenches I myself have known — 
but that is neither here nor there. If naught ails 
thee, sweeting, but a heartache or a sleepless night, 
thy wild-rose bloom will come back soon enow. 
For me, I care not for too fast a red. Still, ’tis 
of another matter I would speak. Dost remem- 
ber what I said to thee yesternight o’ Gillian o’ 
the Gardens? Well, ’tis not a subject that can 
be dismissed so shortly. Thou art full o’ whims, 
as girls be ever, but listen; he loves thee, Joyce, 
full honestly and well, an’ will make thee a right 
good husband.” The man paused for a moment, 
then went on. ‘T would ha’ thee wed an’ set- 
tled. I weary o’ the toll-house. One might as 
well be i’ Newgate as tied to the north tower 
o’ London Bridge. I must an’ will ha’ freedom 
for a space, full license o’ liberty to come and go. 
But thou, sweet,” he ended half-gently, ‘‘but thou 
— seest thou not no little wench could bide here 
alone ?” 

The girl gave a shiver as though the wind 
blew chill up the river from the sea. She raised 
her face to his with a certain appeal. 

“My mother’s people?” she said questioningly. 

91 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


know naught o’ them, but could I not go to 
them perchance?” 

He threw back his head and laughed heartily 
and as at an amusing memory. 

‘Thy mother’s folk?” he answered at last, still 
smiling. “Now, didst not know, little one, I 
stole her away from them, if that can be called 
‘stolen’ which comes fairly o’ its own free will 
to a man? ’Twas no more harm than plucking 
a rose which leans over the fence too far i’ the 
road an’ so tempts those who walk the highway. 
Still, thy mother’s people ha’ hated me since then 
with a villainous an’ undying hatred. Beshrew 
me if ’tis not the one keen living sensation any o’ 
them ever experienced. They be grubbers o’ the 
earth, void o’ wit as the clods they turn. They 
drive cattle and shear sheep; rise with the first 
bird-call, an’ drop to sleep when the fowl perch 
at even; yet, though they be heavy and dull as 
the cattle they tend, they have long memories, 
sweetheart, long memories. They be good livers 
—aye, sour-visaged, Puritan, good livers all o’ 
them; but it would make their righteous hearts 
rejoice to see me swing o’ Tyburn Hill.” 

Joyce gave a hopeless gesture. “Thou couldst 
92 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


not take me with thee, father?” she asked hesi- 
tatingly, — or — marry, yes, let me bide here 

with Silas?” 

The man glanced at her with a certain softness. 

‘‘Odso ! child,” he said, “I have no settled plan, 
but would be free for once. I’ll seek fortune 
a-field — but where could a man go with such as 
thee tied to him ? Thou art not made for rough- 
ing it. As for Silas, well, ’tis beside the question. 
Furthermore, I have half-promised Gillian for 
thee. He is to be here by sundown, an’ ” — with 
a sudden change of tone — ‘‘an’ the thing is good 
as settled. ’Tis a fair enow prospect, an’ thou 
must marry him.” 

An answering gleam came into the girl’s jewel- 
like eyes, so like his own. 

“That I will na’,” she said, lifting her head 
and looking at him straightly, while the colour 
came flying into her cheeks. “That I will na’, 
neither now nor at any time.” 

Davenport caught her by the wrist and thrust 
his passionate, dangerous face close to hers. 

“Dost dare me?” he whispered with suppressed 
fury. “Dost think I am a man to be defied 
always? Hark thee! I have dealt with women 

93 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


ere this and know the way o’ it. There be not 
one in ten thousand worth a flip o’ the finger and 
thumb till her spirit be broken. Now, my beauty, 
I will break thine an’ thou art obstinate! After- 
ward, egad! there will be less trouble with thee. 
Yet, listen. Because I have the patience o' the 
canonised saints, I ask thee once again. Wilt 
thou wed Gillian or no?” 

A mist rose to the girl’s eyes and a trembling 
came to her lips, but her voice was steady. 

“Nay,” she said, “I will na’.” 

“So,” he answered shortly, dropping her arm 
and striding over to the Spanish sea-chest. 

Unhooking a key deliberately from where it 
hung against the wall, he fitted it into the lock 
and let down the carven door, behind which were 
a tier of drawers. One of these he pulled out 
by its curious glass handles, and from it floated 
a strange spicy perfume. It was piled high with 
silken stuffs. Among them he found a folded 
garment, which he shook out. 

It was a gown of glistening cream-hued silk, 
banded here and there with narrow gold embroid- 
ery of a foreign pattern. About the neck, cut 
square and low, and at the wrists of the long 
94 



“HERE BE THY WEDDING-GOWN.” 






BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


puffed and slashed sleeves, was much ruffling of 
ivory-tinted lace. 

^‘Here be thy wedding-gown,” he said between 
his teeth, tossing it over a chair-back. “The sea- 
chest was wreckage the year thou wast born, put 
up to raffle and knocked down to me — therefore, 
come by honestly. Nathless,” with a sneer, “un- 
less thou wert told so, thy scruples of conscience 
would prevent thee taking pleasure in wearing 
such finery. Thou hast some Puritan in thee. 
But thou wilt don this frock. Mistress Joyce, and 
these also,” turning to the chest again and taking 
out a pair of small yellow slippers with high red 
heels, “against thy wedding, which will take place 
by the bell o’ St. Paul’s at six o’ the evening. 
When I have changed my linen, I will see Gillian 
to acquaint him with his good luck, after which 
we will find a priest and return here. Therefore, 
see thou be ready.” 

Joyce shook her head a little, but answered 
nothing. 

“Therefore, see thou be ready,” he said again 
with a tremble in his voice as of some violence 
held in leash. 

“I would please thee an’ I could,” she replied, 

95 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


looking away out of the small window to where 
the Thames glittered in the warm sun and the 
boats went busily back and forth, “but i’ this it 
is not possible.” 

He wheeled toward her with swift fury. The 
blood had risen to his forehead and settled there 
in a red band; his breath came short and fast. 

“Look thee!” he said in a sharp, quick voice 
that cut the air like a lash, “an’ thou wilt not 
willingly consent when the priest be here, an’ 
thou dost defy me before him, then will we take 
thee, UNWED, to Gillian’s house i’ the bear-gar- 
dens, an’ — i' the morning thou wilt be full ready 
to have the man o’ God return!” 

, So saying, he wheeled about and went out, 
shutting the door behind him with such violence 
the little house rocked. 

Joyce Davenport stood very still where her 
father had left her. Her eyes were wide and 
burned like stars ; the marks of his strong fingers 
stood out in red and angry colour on her arm. 
She covered the place with her other hand. 

The room was again dim and shadowy, for it 
only caught the sun at high noon. The girl 
looked slowly about it as though seeking for some 
96 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


plan of escape. No definite thought came to her. 
She was as though lost in a maze, and so stood 
still. 

The dreadful threat Davenport had spoken 
hardly reached her yet in its full force, but the 
one idea that presently became all-absorbing was 
that he would certainly come back — later on — 
and with Gillian. She crossed to the low win- 
dow where the brown figure of the juggler had 
so often stood of late, and leaned her face for 
a moment against the weather-stained frame of 
wood, closing her eyes, but only for a moment. 
Then she went to the chair upon which lay the 
cream-hued silken gown. This she gathered in 
her arm, and with it the high-heeled slippers. 

^‘Now,” she said half-aloud, ^Vhat is’t I must 
do first? Something, I know there was. Aye, 
I remember. First I will lay out the buff clothes 
and fresh linen for my father.’’ 

Going above-stairs, she took the undershirt and 
wide starched collar from its box and laid beside 
it a holiday tabard of deep yellow cloth, slashed 
here and there with wine-coloured cordovan ; 
there were low pointed boots of the same and a 
rolling hat with a plume and buckle. 

97 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


It was such a suit as one of the players from 
the Southwark theatres might have worn, and 
was costly and beautiful, but it matched Daven- 
port’s tastes, for there were many gentlemen 
about London who did not dress so extravagantly 
as the toll-taker. 

After these garments were brushed of the last 
bit of dust and folded in full sight on the low 
bed, with nothing missing, from the collar-scarf 
to the garters of the long, rough silk nether 
stocks, she went to her own room. 

‘'Now will I dress, as he bade me,” she said, 
conceding as a woman will in trifles ; “ ’tis full 
as easy to think in a silken gown as a russet one, 
an’ till I think I know not what to do.” 

Shortly, Davenport came up the stairs, and 
she heard him moving about with nervous haste 
in his bedroom, speaking now and then to him- 
self in broken sentences, as was his habit when 
excited. After a little he stepped out on the 
landing. 

“Art there. Mistress Joyce?” he called sharply. 

“Aye, father; dost want me?” 

“Art dressed ?” he said, by way of reply. 

For answer she threw open the door, and he 

98 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


saw her standing in front of the copper mirror, 
a vision of loveliness that the light centred 
upon. 

Her peculiar silvery blond hair was waved and 
coiled high on her head, and caught there with 
a golden dart that long ago he had given her; 
about her forehead and ears there rippled little 
stray lovelocks. 

The square-cut bodice showed the dazzling 
white of her throat and shoulders, and the straight 
long folds of the silken gown clung about her 
young, rounded limbs. 

He raised his hand to his eyes as he had done 
the morning he first discovered her great beauty. 

‘Thou wilt do,” he said. “ Tis well thou 
hast come to thy senses.” 

“Nay,” she replied, “think not so. I have not 
changed in mind, yet am I sore bewildered, an’ 
know not what is best to do.” 

“Thou wilt do as I bid thee,” he returned grim- 
ly, and went down the stairs. 

Going out, he double-locked the door and 
across it hung a chain that was but seldom used. 

“Now, by the Saints of God !” he said to him- 
self softly as he strode down the bridge, as goodly 
99 


LofC. 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


a figure as any abroad in the afternoon sun, ‘‘now 
by the last bit o’ my honour, ’tis a thing I hate 
to do! She hath my spirit, an’ a rarer beauty 
than any I ha’ seen. Gillian o’ the bear-gardens 
or Ferrier! ’Tis enow to give a man a humour 
o’ the brain to think on’t. ’Tis casting a pearl 
before swine.” 

Joyce sat down wearily on a low stool that had 
been hers when she was a child, and stooping, 
lifted the little tangled-haired dog that always 
followed her about, and gathered him against the 
laces of her dress. He curled down in much 
content and shut his golden-brown eyes that, 
awake, held the unspoken melancholy of the ages 
in their depths. 

“I would I were like thee,” she said, stroking 
him softly, “an’ could so easily forget. Sleep 
is not for me — I must plan — must think me some 
way quickly out o’ these troubles. 

“Poor Silas! he hath been long on watch. If 
he could help me now he would — i’ faith, to the 
last drop o’ his blood, so he hath sworn often. 
But ’tis myself must help myself. No one else 
may now — no, not even the great Queen.” 

She stopped with a sharp catching of the breath. 


lOO 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


*^The Queen r she said again. A flashing thought 
had come to her. 

Rising, Joyce dropped the little sleeping dog 
onto the floor, where he awoke with a frightened 
bark. She ran over to where a tiny box lay on 
the table, lifted it, pressed on a spring, and the 
cover opened. Inside was a ring, which she took 
up and slipped on her thumb. It was a thick 
golden band set with a strange red-veined green 
stone, upon which was carven the letter “E.” 

Without waiting, the girl caught her cloak from 
its peg, tied it on, threw her skirts over her arm, 
and flew down the dark stairs, the high-heeled 
slippers tapping the floor at each quick step. 
Finding the door fast, she opened the window 
and called Silas. 

The old sailor came pegging along from his 
seat. 

“Pray thee make haste, good Silas!” Joyce 
called softly. “I have somewhat to tell thee that 
only thou must hear. But first — art not fore- 
wearied ?” 

“Belike I be, Mistress Joyce,” he replied, com- 
ing up. “Aye, stiff i’ my timbers I be, an’ weary 
to the marrow. Thy father hath not been on 


lOI 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


duty since yestere’en, yet I saw him swing down 
Southwark way but half an hour gone, dressed 
like the Queen’s trumpeter for grandness! He 
might ha’ been off to a wedding-feast.” 

Joyce caught her breath. 

“Marry, thou hast had a long watch,” she said 
sympathetically. “Perchance thou didst not sleep 
i’ the night, neither? Hast had thy dinner?” 

“Well, as to that,” he said, rubbing his jaw, 
divided between his desire for more pity and the 
truth, “well, as to that, a man cannot get many 
winks o’ sleep sitting bolt upright through the 
dark; an’ the sea-wind blows in sharp toward 
daybreak — but I had a collap for my dinner; 
naught to speak of, but just a cold collap an’ a 
pint o’ sack from Perrier’s.” 

“Now, that is better!” she said. “I feared 
thou wert hungry. But listen,” leaning toward 
him ; “I have news for thee. Mayhap as thou hast 
been a little fond o’ me, thou wilt not care to 
hear it. 

“I be going away, Silas, quite away. An’ I 
will tarry. I will not come back to the toll-house, 
neither to-day nor to-morrow — nor any to-mor- 
row.” 


102 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


The old sailor stared dumbly at her. 

“Look not so at me, good Silas,” she said, “nor 
make it harder. I have my wits and know what 
I do. I go because ’tis best, because I must; 
yet will I not tell thee where, even if it chance 
that I know, for then thou wilt have naught to 
conceal from my father when he questions thee.” 

“But why?” he said, finding words, and with 
his old face lined and troubled. “What’s to do, 
mistress? There will sure be some reason for 
such madness.” 

“Indeed, yes,” she answered, “reason enough. 
I have been sorely unhappy. Oh, vastly more 
unhappy than thou canst dream, thou who art 
content to sit i’ thy corner by the tower day in 
an’ out, an’ dost only fret if the wind blows too 
chill for thee, or the rain falls too heavy, or the 
sun shines too hot! Perchance thou hast out- 
lived many things. But seest thou not life comes 
in different sort to me? I may find patience 
when I be old, but age is far off. I will tell thee 
what befell,” she went on, speaking rapidly. 
“Last night I stood by my window long past 
the hour my father came home. It seemed I 
never would sleep again. Many things that thou 
103 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


dost not wot of, Silas, have lately gone awry. 
The river ran dark and smooth, save where it 
rippled, flecked with silver i’ the moon, and the 
moon itself, like a ball o’ gold, may have cast 
its spell on me — I know not — but this I did. I 
went out an’ away down the old water-stairs — 
those that be green and slippery from the tide 
and that rock when one steps hard on them — an’ 
I took the little punt that is ever moored there 
and pushed it out. When it drifted past the 
starlings o’ the bridge, I stepped out an’ into the 
river.” 

The old man swore and caught her hand. 

“Aye,” she answered. “ ’Tis very truth, an’ I 
but tell thee lest it become gossip, and so doth 
reach thee i’ some other way. ’Twas the old 
bell-man who followed, while he an’ a ferry-man 
brought me safe out, nor would not let me die.” 

“The bell-ringer!” cried Silas. “The dour, 
lemon-faced Puritan, whose head be cracked worse 
than the bell o’ south tower he rings! I would 
ha’ thought he’d let thee drown. He doth hate 
womankind.” 

“!’ faith, no, good Silas,” she returned gently. 
“Meseemeth the world misunderstands some men. 

104 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


’Twas the old Puritan — half-mad though he be 
— who made me see what I did was evil, yet he 
was not harsh.” 

Silas still gazed at her blankly. 

*‘r the river?” he muttered. the river, 
sweeting? Aye, but thou must ha’ had a heart- 
ache first.” 

She gave a little upward smile at him. ‘‘Well, 
marry, I may have had, but in any case I will 
not try to stop it so again.” 

“I trow not,” he answered. “ ’Tis a mad way, 
an’ a wicked.” 

“Thou dost know my father an’ I be not al- 
ways o’ the same mind,” she went on. “Per- 
chance it is because we cannot agree that I go 
away. He says a woman’s whole duty is obedi- 
ence — he doth not grant her a will o’ her own. 
He tells me her spirit — an’ so be she unhappily 
have one — must be broken ere she be worth,” 
remembering his words, “a Hip o’ the Unger and 
thumb/' 

“An’ I warrant, mistress,” he chimed in, “he 
hath broken the spirits an’ hearts — for ’tis much 
the same thing — o’ more women than any other 
Englishman before him, save,” reflectively, “may- 

105 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


hap, King Harry himself. There was a pretty 
wench now, of a sort best not mentioned before 
thee, who yet loved thy father, an’ i’ a fray i’ 
one of the river-houses, where knives were out, 
she threw herself before him an’ caught a blow 
meant to end his life. An’ there was yet an- 
other — ” The girl shuddered. 

“Nay, nay. Master Silas, I would hear no more. 
Time flies, an’ ’tis the four-o’clock ferry up- 
stream I would catch. Wilt help me step out 
by the window? These skirts leave me no free- 
dom.” 

“Nay,” he said. “ ’Tis ill asking me to help 
thee with thy wild schemes.” 

“Prythee trust me,” she answered coaxingly. 
“Worse befalls if I stay than if I go.” 

He waited, thinking heavily. 

“Then give me thy hand,” he said presently, 
and lifted her out as best he could. 

The girl stood for a moment beside him, look- 
ing into his sea-worn old face. 

“P truth, I hate to leave thee mightily, good 
Silas,” she said, her eyes swimming with tears. 
“Thou wert ever my best friend, an’ we have 
seen sights together an’ gone a-Maying, thou and 
io6 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

1. Dost remember how we used to sail i’ the 
red dingy, an’ how thou didst sing me sea-ballads 
an’ tell me o’ thy fortunes? Yes, an’ hast for- 
gotten that summer day, years ago, when the 
Queen’s company, lords and ladies all — like folk 
from fairy-land — rode over the bridge, an’ how 
Her Majesty stopped her white palfrey at north 
tower an’ asked for my father?” 

‘That do I well,” he said. “Marry, naught 
would do but her Grace an’ the whole glittering 
lot o’ ’em must have out the toll-taker to see 
him! An’ alack-a-day! he was abroad, cock- 
fighting i’ Southwark. So then I bethought me 
on a sudden o’ thee, an’ fetched thee from the 
house just as thou wert i’ thy little blue frock an’ 
thy wondrous cloud o’ silver locks about thee, 
an’ I lifted thee up to the Queen’s saddle so thou 
might kiss her hand, while all the Court people 
drew around, chattering like magpies o’ thy 
beauty.” 

Joyce gave a little laugh, though the mist still 
dimmed her eyes. 

“An’ dost not further remember, dear Silas, 
how, peradventure, because she liked my face, 
the great Queen slipped this green-stoned ring 
107 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


on my finger, an’ bid me show it at the palace- 
gate should ever day come when I would see her, 
an’ said it held a stone of magic one might dream 
on?” 

‘‘Gadzooks, yes. Mistress Joyce!” he exclaimed, 
‘‘ ’tis the very ring! I do mind me well. Now 
God save Queen Bess!” he said, taking off his 
cap. 

‘^But is’t to Westminster Palace thou dost 
fare?” he said aghast. ‘'Nay, dream not o’ any- 
thing so wild. Trust nothing to the Queen’s 
grace. Her Majesty be full o’ caprice and with 
a mind beset o’ many things. She will ha’ clean 
forgotten the summer day she rode o’er the 
bridge, an’ the fairy ring she gave thee, an’ even 
thee also, sweeting.” 

“I say not where I fare. Master Silas,” the 
girl answered sadly, bending down to lift the 
little dog which had leaped from the window 
and was now at her feet. “I say not where I 
fare, so wilt thou have the less to tell. But I 
would hasten, for there be scant time to reach 
the ferry.” 

Catching his knotty hand in her two soft ones, 
she raised it to her lips, then pulled her hood 
io8 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


well over her hair, gathered her skirts together, 
and ran swiftly past the gates. 

Silas looked after her, then down at his hand. 
Kisses were not things that often came his way, 
and he felt the touch of the warm lips yet. His 
clogged brain, heavy from want of sleep, revolved 
tediously about one thought, and the superstition 
that he shared with other sailors rose in its might. 

‘‘Now by the Mass!’’ he whispered hotly, “ ’tis 
the juggler who hath wound this coil. Belike 
the devil helps him throw the long knives, for 
he hath a reckless, fearless way no unaided man 
e’er knew. And,” crossing himself hurriedly, 
“nathless, he hath the evil eye. ’Twas so he 
made me, who am unbeholden to him i’ any mat- 
ter, feel his mastery. ‘Do this or that,’ he says, 
his head high an’ his eyes blazing on one, an’ 
straightway a man does it, whate’er it be. 

“Odso! no little wench could withstand such 
witchery, an’ he hath straightly caught Mistress 
Joyce i’ some spell or love-trap; but,” smiling 
grimly, “she hath a will o’ steel, an’ hath broken 
away, so it’s not old Silas will help any overtake 
her. Should the brown trickster come about 
north tower to-night. I’ll ha’ a tale for him will 
109 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


free his eyes o’ sleep, an’ give him a bed o’ 
thorns for many a week. 

’Tis like he would ha’ played fast and loose 
with the wench an’ forgotten her when the fever 
was past, but now doth he love her i’ his own 
mad, evil way, or ne’er saw I the signs. He 
would dice his soul to the devil for her to-day, 
though he whistled her down the wind to-mor- 
row. Marry, such a man loves longest that which 
he be denied, an’ mayhap what is but a memory 
may torture him. ’Twill catch him sharper than 
a stiletto at his heart. It be ill trying to hurt 
those o’ the charmed lives — but my news will 
serve. I like not the ancient serving-man neither. 
Honest men move not so catlike afoot.” 

So he communed with himself while a tide 
of anger beat the blood into his troubled face 
and set his crippled fingers trembling as he 
reached up for the riders’ tolls. Yet he kept 
close to his post and waited, with the patience 
of the old and sad, for what might happen 
next. 

When five o’clock rang, a young, square-set 
man came up the footpath and stopped by Silas. 
He was dressed in the oil-skin jerkin and long 


no 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


boots of a waterman, and wore a woollen cap 
of scarlet. 

‘‘Is’t thou, Giles Bowman?” asked the old 
sailor. 

“Aye,” he answered shortly. “Be Mistress 
Davenport within?” 

“What wouldst wi’ her ?” said Silas suspicious- 
ly. “What wouldst wi' her, lad?” 

“I would see her,” he answered, flushing be- 
neath his brown. “Prythee, I would see if she 
be well an’ safe. I feared — I know scarce what 
— but since yesternight ” 

“I’ faith,” cried Silas softly, breaking in, 
“marry an’ Amen! Then it be thoUj Giles o’ 
the ferry, who with the daft bell-man followed 
Mistress Joyce i’ the river!” 

“Aye,” he answered. “But who made thee 
free o’ the story? ’Twas not the bell-ringer, eh? 
I would not have scandal.” 

Silas shook his head. “The maid told me her- 
self. But,” lowering his voice hoarsely, “there 
be a mystery about it all, an’ she hath now gone 
away. To the gray sisters, methinks, but be not 
sure.” 

The ferry-man started. “By Heaven!” he 


III 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


said sharply, “these be strange doings. For what 
reason, master, did she go? For what reason, 
now ? I have no liking for mysteries.” 

“ Tis no business o’ thine'' said Silas, glanc- 
ing at the strong young face. “Yet I’ll trust 
thee as thou dost know part. Dost bring to 
mind the brown juggler who lately tossed knives 
at bridge- foot?” 

“Aye ” 

“ ’Tis by reason o’ him she hath fled. I’ll 
gainsay. He put a spell over her. He hath a 
charm o’ way with him, an’ the evil eye, but 
my mistress hath broken from the snare o’ such 
love as he would give. She hath escaped. The 
toll-man knows naught an’ has said naught,” the 
old sailor continued. “If he cannot take care 
o’ what belongs to him, marry, let him lose it, 
say I. / will tell him nothing, neither do thou, 
o' last night’s work. 

“But the juggler! That is another matter. 
Beshrew me! He shall ha’ his game blocked. 
He would rake London over, aye, would scour 
the high seas, but he would find Mistress Joyce. 
He is not one to let his quarry escape, nor is he 
easily thwarted when he hath gone mad about a 


112 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


maid. He is dangerous, or I be no judge o’ men, 
an’ hath a slippery tool ever at his heels i’ the 
shape o’ an old serving-man — wedge- faced, an’ 
wiry, an’ hard to corner, I warrant, as any weasel. 

*‘Now pay fast heed, master ferry-man. When 
the juggler com’th to-night, finds the cage empty 
and the bird flown, he will ply me desperately 
with questions. Then, mark you, will I tell him 
o’ the river, o’ how the little lass took the punt 
an’ drifted out an’ threw herself in by cause 
o’ heartbreak. Then, God’s mercy, will I ship 
him to thee as one who saw it. If thou dost 
help me by saying naught o' the rescue, he will 
think her at the bottom o’ Thames, an’ leave 
hunting her for other game. Dost follow me? 
’Tis a trick, but one the priest would shrive a 
man for.” 

The man reddened darkly. ‘‘Hath this fellow 
played Joyce Davenport false, think you?” he 
said. 

“That I know not,” answered Silas, “but she 
hath been mightily troubled an’ over-set. Wilt 
do as I ask? Tell him only that thou from thy 
ferry saw Mistress Joyce throw herself i’ the 
river ?” 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“That will I,” he answered. “I will not aid 
the trickster. Nay,” with a quick gleam in his 
eyes, “I would kill him an’ I thought — but I will 
not wrong her by thinking. Which way went 
she, good man? I would follow an’ see she be 
safe.” 

There was a tremble in the quick speech and 
a hot eagerness. Silas shot a glance at him. 
^^Thou, too?” he said. “Nay, master ferry-man, 
give o’er dreaming o’ Joyce Davenport. Who- 
e’er she be for, she be not for thee. Me seemeth 
no man may see her on London Bridge more. 
I have a forecasting o’ it. Keep to thy promise. 
So canst thou help her best.” 

The ferry-man turned away and had gone a 
distance when Silas called after him : 

“Send the bell-man by an’ thou dost happen 
on him.” 

“Aye,” he answered, and went on. 

It neared six as the bell-man came silently as 
a shadow around the angle of the tower. 

Silas was watching, yet started at the sudden 
sight of the lean figure and sharp, leathery face. 

“I would speak with thee, master bell-ringer,” 
he said. 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“Speak on,” he returned. “As for me, I an- 
swer no man unless the spirit bids me, for silence 
is better than words.” 

“In a woman, yes,” said the sailor. “As for 
thee, ’tis known on the bridge that when thou 
dost speak, ’tis the truth.” 

“There be little virtue in that,” he answered. 
“I be no son o’ the father o’ lies.” 

“Beshrew me, the truth is well, master bell- 
man, an’ many a good gentleman would ha’ been 
saved racking i’ the Tower had he spoken it 
first instead o’ last. But, ’tis beside the question. 
The truth is vastly better than lies, yet it doth 
not follow that a man must tell all the truth. 
One needs discretion. It be surely no sin to 
keep back that to his own conscience which will 
but harm another i’ deadly fashion should it be 
spit forth.” 

“Thou art long o’ wind,” answered the bell- 
man, sighing. “What hath this to do wi’ me? 
My conversation is ever ‘Yea, yea,’ ‘Nay, nay,’ 
as the Lord directed. I harm no man, but ring 
the south-tower bell when the tides be high. Let 
me be gone.” 

“Not till thou dost give me a fair promise,” 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

answered Silas firmly, holding him by the ragged 
sleeve of his leather jerkin. 

‘That is as God directs,” he said. 

“Dost mind thee, last night i’ the moonlight, 
seeing the toll-man’s little wench throw herself 
i’ the river?” said Silas close to his ear. 

“That do I,” he replied. “I followed an’ woke 
the ferry-man, an’ he followed likewise.” 

“Now God be praised!” said Silas. “But 
hearken! Should one come to ask thee o’ it, say 
just this much : 7 saw the maid slip i' the water* 
an’ say no more. ’Tis an evil man will ask thee, 
one who hath caused her unhappiness, who would 
bring her more. I would have him think her 
sea-drift by this time, so will he betake himself 
otherwhere an’ give o’er troubling my mistress. 
Does sense o’ this reach thy brain?” 

The leathery face, looking steadily at Silas, 
was twisted and perplexed. “Now there be no 
verse o’ Scripture to lead one here,” he mut- 
tered. 

“By the Saints!” cried Silas hotly, “the little 
wench would ha’ been at peace by to-day an’ ’t 
had not been for thy meddling. Would set this 
man on to cause her more grief ? He be a pirate 

ii6 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


o’ women’s hearts, a freebooter. Marry, thou 
art over-righteous an’ full o’ piety!” 

“Not so, my friend,” said the bell-man; “no 
man is over-righteous. Mistress Joyce is a gentle 
wench, though such beauty as she hath is but 
the devil’s snare to catch men. Still, I would 
na’ harm her. I will say but half-truth, master 
toll-man, should this man ask me aught.” 

“I thank thee,” answered Silas with a breath 
of relief. “Thou hast a good heart.” 

“Nay,” he returned, “the heart is deceitful 
above all things and desperately wicked. To this 
one man — should I know him — I will speak but 
half-truth, and to others I will say naught.” 

“Nathless, thou wilt know him,” returned 
Silas. “He is mightily tall an’ powerful, an’ hath 
a handsome brown face with strange eyes that put 
a spell on one. So. To thy cracked bell, maister 
Puritan, an’ I to my tolls. Yonder is the toll- 
master coming with Gillian o’ the Gardens an’ 
a priest for company. Now what can the man 
o’ God wi’ them? ’Tis a dove an’ two carrion 
crows. Egad! there will be trouble afore the 
night’s past. Get thee to thy bell, good ringer, 
the river rises.” 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Davenport came up with his long, swinging 
step, the priest, heavy and short of wind, keeping 
up to him as best he could. Gillian walked a little 
behind, and wore a suit of Kendal green much 
laced with crimson ribbons, from which dangled 
and jingled long gilt needle-tags. 

From his corner Silas watched them cunningly, 
his eyes blinking from the strong sun, which was 
turning the Thames to a river of gold in the 
west. 

The toll-master took down the chain from his 
door as the great bell of St. Paul’s rang six 
times. 

‘We be on the stroke o’ the hour. Father,” he 
said, glancing at the priest and Gillian, and turn- 
ing the key at the moment. 

“I left the wench word we would return at 
six. So, come thee both in. Come thee both in.” 

They entered the room, over which lay a 
strange silence. 

Davenport went to the stairfoot. 

“I will above and fetch the maid, Gillian,” he 
said. “A little shyness be pardonable, an’ rare 
nowadays. Marry, she may fly thee a bit. Wait, 
good Father, i’ yonder chair an’ get thy breath.” 

ii8 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


They listened to him mounting the steep stairs, 
opening the doors on either side of the landing 
and striding across the sanded floors. Once or 
twice they heard him break forth with an oath, 
short and terrible. Then there was silence and 
he came down again. 

He stood there, straight as an arrow, his head 
a little thrown back, looking from one to the 
other. There was a red glow in the depths of 
his eyes like that in the heart of a fire, and his 
face was a white, frozen mask. His square lower 
jaw set hard to the other, and a strand of his 
long moustache was caught between his teeth. 

‘‘My daughter be not within,'' he said. “I will 
to the sailor at the gate; he must know which 
road she hath taken. By the Lord Harry, she 
will not have dared go far!" 

Out of the door he wheeled again, Gillian 
watching, with his small, shifty eyes growing 
narrower and more eager every moment, and his 
blunt fingers hooking and unhooking and snap- 
ping at the joints with a dull sound. 

The priest waited in phlegmatic silence. Mar- 
riages were naught to him save as to the fee, 
and for this one he had been paid beforehand, 
119 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


as it was a fast-day, and therefore he demurred 
at coming at all. 

“What’s to do, Silas?” they heard Davenport 
call. “Where be thy mistress?” 

“Be she not within?” he answered heavily. 

“That she is not. Come, wake thyself. Hast 
seen her?” 

“Not o’ late, maister,” he said. “Not o’ late, 
truly. What be thy hurry?” 

Davenport clinched his hands and took a swift 
step, then held up. 

“Sharpen thy wits, blockhead,” he said with 
dangerous softness, “or I will put an edge on 
them for thee! Get thee off thy stool an’ come 
hither. Now. Where be my daughter?” 

Silas rubbed his chin. 

“I know not,” he answered. “Thou dost not 
set me here to watch thy daughter, master toll- 
man, but to take the tolls. I should ask more 
wage an’ thou didst.” 

Davenport shut his teeth savagely. 

“Thou idiot!” he said. “Damme if I do not 
break thy neck an’ thou dost not answer!” 

The old sailor smiled a little and shook his 
head. 


120 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“I fear thee not, maister,” he said. ‘‘I be 
heavy wi’ sleep, an’ may ha’ nodded off betimes. 
It seemeth I saw Mistress Joyce run by north 
tower a while ago with the little rough dog i’ her 
arms. At four or five o’ the bell, bechance. How 
should I know whither she sped, or if by thy 
license ?” 

Davenport laughed beneath his breath. 

‘‘Lord, I hate a fool !” he said, stopping short. 
“Didst not gape at me whilst I made fast the 
chain? Dost not know how I guard the jade? 
Thou dolt!” 

“I mind naught but my business, which be 
taking thy tolls,” said Silas stubbornly, “an’ I 
be fore-wearied, maister.” 

“Thou wilt be more,” he said furiously. “I 
will deal with thee later.” 

Then he turned to the others. 

“Get to thy beads, good Father,” he said, “an’ 
beseech Heaven grant me patience when I over- 
take the lass, for find her I will — without thy 
prayers or our Lady’s help.” 

“Thou art blasphemous, my son,” returned the 
priest mildly. “Anger like thine leads to mortal 
sin.” 


I2I 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Davenpqrt smiled. “S’death!” he said. “I 
call not this anger. Anger breeds i’ my soul 
but slowly. Perchance by midnight 'twill have 
reached white heat an’ my luck hath not turned. 
So! To thy rosary. Thou wilt earn thy fee 
later. 

‘‘As for thee, Gillian,” looking toward him, 
“dost care to search wi’ me, or art content to 
cry the match off? ’Tis one to me. There be a 
score o’ men — men o’ blood an’ money — I can 
fill thy place wi’ as bridegroom on the morrow.” 

“Go to, Davenport!” cried the bear-keeper. 
“Hold thy temper. Not so fast. I like a co- 
quette, an’ ni ha’ that lass o’ thine if I spend 
my last groat for’t. I withdraw only should I 
find some other gentleman hath forestalled me 
an’ taken right o’ way with Mistress Joyce.” 

The toll-master glanced him over from head 
to foot and shrugged his shoulders. 

“Most men would ha’ small blame for her if 
such were the case. But — I know her better. 
She might try to escape thee, but not by such 
means. Unless — ” he paused, a thought striking 
him. 

“Hark thee, thou old fool!” he called sharply 


122 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


to Silas. "‘Hath seen the masked juggler here- 
abouts since yestere’en?” 

‘That have I not, maister,” he answered posi- 
tively. “Neither he nor his serving-man have 
passed the gate. This I can stake my soul on.” 

“Then we will to the ladies o’ St. Anne’s or 
St. Margaret’s,” said Davenport. “ ’Tis there 
Joyce hath flown — there be no other place — save 
’tis to an old nurse she once had who lives near 
the marshes. An’ I find that bedlam dame hath 
given her shelter, I will have her to the ducking- 
pond for a witch!” 

He led off at a rapid pace, Gillian following, 
while the priest made his way back to the Do- 
minican friary, now so deserted of his kind. 

But Silas waited. 

The evening drew in, and the early watch am- 
bled by as was their habit, no two together. By- 
and-by, when the riders were few, he pegged 
over to Jock Ferrier’s and asked for a drink. 
He drained the great horn flagon while he stood 
at the wine-shop door, and kept his eye on the 
gate. Then he returned to his post. 

“By our Lady!” he said once or twice with 
lips that were still dry, “he shall not escape! 

123 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Keep thy wits where thou canst find them, Silas! 
Thou wilt need them to-night.” 

Eight struck, and the links were set alight on 
the towers. A little salt breeze, sharp and fresh, 
sent the river pulsing quickly around the piers 
and bulwarks of the bridge. The footpath was 
deserted, save at long intervals, and the highway 
of the Thames was almost empty of pleasure- 
craft, though a few wherries and punts plied 
steadily between the landings. Here and there 
the stars winked out, and a comet, strangely 
luminous, that had of late distracted the astrolo- 
gers by its vagaries, hung above the distant 
Tower. Silas crossed himself as he saw it. The 
old sailor was giddy from want of sleep and 
faint, yet he strained his eyes through the 
dusk. 

Nine tolled out from St. Paul’s again, solemn- 
ly and slow, and was followed by the lesser bells. 
An owl flew overhead with muffled wings, and 
hooted softly. Then down the bridge came the 
man Silas waited for. There was no mistaking 
that lithe and graceful figure. Yet it was not 
the juggler of bridge-foot as people knew him. 
To-night he wore no suit of sad-hued cordovan, 
124 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


nor was he masked. He was dressed in gray 
cloth, shot with silver threads that sparkled as 
he moved. A little fur-edged cloak hung from 
his shoulders, and his wide black hat was plumed 
and buckled. When he reached the toll-house he 
stopped, looking up at the windows, then passed 
it and returned, this time knocking sharply at 
the door. The sound echoed out over the water 
and died away. The man turned about and 
crossed to the corner where Silas sat in the 
velvet-black shadow. 

*‘Art alone. Master Silas,’’ he said, ‘‘or is the 
toll-master about? I would speak with him.” 

“I be alone,” answered the sailor slowly. 

“Where is thy master?” 

“That I know not,” he returned, “but he seeks 
what he would find, an’ is abroad i’ the night.” 

The tall, questioning figure drew a step nearer 
and looked down into the old, determined face. 

“Come into the light of the links,” he said; 
“I would read thee. I like not thy tone of voice, 
nor words that are riddles. What hath the toll- 
master lost of value? Speak quickly.” 

Silas rose stiffly. 

“I speak as I know,” he replied. “Davenport 

125 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


hath lost his daughter and seeks her, though, 
peradventure, he will not find her.’’ 

The man laid his two strong hands on the 
bent shoulders. 

‘‘Art sane or hast been drinking?” he said be- 
tween his teeth. “Play not with me, I am in no 
mood for jollity. Now, where is thy mistress, 
Joyce Davenport?” 

The words came with swiftness that betokened 
danger, and the hands that gripped Silas were 
as of steel within velvet, yet his lined face looked 
up unafraid. 

“Ask the river yonder,” he said softly. “Ask 
the river, sir juggler. See if ’twill answer; for 
me, I jest not.” 

“The Thames?” said the man. “The Thames? 
What hath that to do with the question? Thou 
art stark mad ! I am a fool to pay heed to thee.” 

He took a step away, then stopped. 

“Egad! Why shouldst thou tell such a tale?” 
he went on. “Even a madman hath method. 
There must be somewhat behind. Damn thee! 
dost not see I suffer? Thy little mistress — truly 
she is not within — nor yet is the toll-man about 
— but why invent a lie to cover their absence? 
126 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


’Fore Heaven, tell me the truth! Where are 
they?” 

‘‘Listen, then,” Silas answered, creeping 
toward him. “Last night Mistress Joyce took 
the river way o’ ending grief — ’tis a common 
one hereabout. Aye, there be always bodies i’ 
the dead-houses along the banks. They drift up 
mostly, though some go to sea. I say not what 
misfortune came to my lady. Marry, I know 
not what traps such men as thee set for a maid, 
but thou hast a strange charm an’ are good to 
the eye. Thou art o’ the quality, too, though 
thou dost play to the people an’ take their small 
coin. Thou art o’ the quality, an’ meant not 
to wed the lass. See you,” sinking his voice, 
“there is ever a little punt moored at the old 
water-stair. This she took i’ the hour near dawn 
an’ drifted out, an’ stepped from it i’ the Thames.” 

A quick shudder ran through the juggler. 

“Now this be truth” he whispered slowly, 
bending near Silas in the dark. “Thou art con- 
vincing. There is the essence of death in thy 
voice, and the chill of it; but I must know past 
doubt. I will have proof. Didst see this horror 
thyself?” 


\2y 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“Nay, maister juggler, I saw naught. The 
little maid slipped by i’ the dark. But go thee 
to the hell-ringer o’ south tower. He is betwixt 
this an’ bridge-end all hours o’ the day an’ night. 
He saw! An’ find, then, Giles Bowman, the 
ferry-man by the landing nearest north tower; 
he will tell thee.” 

Yelverton walked back to the old leaning toll- 
house and stood for a moment by the latticed 
window. His uplifted face, as Silas saw it, 
showed hard as though cut from flint. Then 
he went toward Southwark rapidly with long, 
unsteady steps. 


128 


THE FLIGHT TO SOMERSET 
HOUSE 




( 

I 

i 


S 


i 

! 


5 

f 

■i 


CHAPTER V 


J OYCE DAVENPORT reached the upstream 
ferry as it was making ready to start. 

There was a motley crowd aboard, but the 
ferry-man, a swarthy fellow with a red rose stuck 
through the ring-hole in his ear, cleared a space, 
and placed a three-legged stool for her near the 
centre of the craft. 

She wrapped the long cloak closely about her, 
yet even so a bit of golden embroidery at the 
edge of her gown showed to the sharp eyes of 
the rough folk near, and they wondered at the 
small yellow slippers. The girl did not notice 
the nudging and staring, but scanned the bridge 
lest her father might be by one of the parapets 
looking down, for Davenport was long of sight, 
‘‘Art faring to Greenwich, mistress?'' said a 
narrow-faced water-man at her elbow. “There 
be sports there this afternoon; aye, an' games — 
the cushion-dance, an' kiss-i'-the-ring ; an' there 
be archery at the butts, too." 

13 1 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘‘I heard not of it,” she answered distantly. 

‘‘Gadzooks !” he exclaimed. “Where hast kept 
thyself? All the men and maids o’ London will 
be at Greenwich to-day. Queen Bess hath given 
over the palace bowling green for their sports 
an’ mummery, an’ sends down at nightfall a hogs- 
head o’ cherry-sack. I made sure thou wert 
decked i’ such bravery to be mistress o’ the revels, 
though I know not where there’d be a Lord o’ 
Misrule to match thee.” 

She bit her lip and coloured, for there was 
a familiar tone in the man’s voice. 

“The Court, then, is at Greenwich Palace?” 
she said by way of answer and drawing her stool 
a little away. 

“Marry, no,” returned the water-man garru- 
lously. “All the quality be i’ London, an’ the 
Court i’ Somerset House. I be plying back an’ 
forth past the great landing-stair all morning, 
an’ heard tell there be a joust i’ the tilting-yard 
to-day. ’Tis Sir Henry Lee will unseat every 
mother’s son o’ them. They say he is i’ high 
favour with Her Majesty, an’ she hath made 
him her champion. There be gay doings at Court 
this year. Tilts an’ tourneys, an’ hawkings an’ 
132 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


huntings, an’ nights o’ revel, an’ much joyance 
o’ one sort an’ other, though it be dull enow, I 
warrant, i’ Fotheringay Castle for the Queen o’ 
Scots. England need not complain. A merry 
Court makes brisk trade for the common folk. 
The times be lively, mistress.” 

‘Ts’t so?” said Joyce coldly. ‘T knew not. 
r truth, thou art a good vendor o’ news.” 

The water-man smiled complacently. 

“Aye, I keep my eyes and ears open,” he said, 
“an’ I get my pennyworth o’ what’s doing, though 
I say little. There be but two sorts o’ men — 
those who say much an’ know little an’ those 
who know much an’ say little, an’ of this last 
sort be I. Those who ha’ clacking tongues should 
be tied in the chair an’ soused i’ Islington duck- 
ing-pond. Gossip is the evil o’ the day.” 

“Thou art right,” said the girl, nodding. Then 
she leaned toward the ferry-man with the rose 
in his ear and touched his arm as he pulled vig- 
orously against the current. 

“Wilt stop at the landing below Somerset Pal- 
ace?” she asked. 

“The Queen’s stairs?” he asked, smiling. 
“They be made for such as thee, methinks.” 

133 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘‘Nay,” she answered; “I mean the people’s 
landing well o’ this side, good sir. I would 
do an errand thereabout.” 

“Well, pray thee have a care. Mistress Daven- 
port,” he said in a low voice, drawing his brows 
together. “There be no worse nest o’ dens along 
the Thames than those close below the palace, 
an’ there be many free-spoken cut-purses afoot 
along the river-streets.” 

“I give thee thanks,” she returned, “but I ha’ 
no fear.” 

The people around were a chattering crowd, 
and a cheery North-countryman dealt out gener- 
ously among them great yellow pippins, which 
they ate with gusto. Joyce held the one he gave 
her in her hand, where it shone like a ball of 
copper. The little dog curled at her feet and 
blinked in the sunshine. Against the rough old 
ferry the river ran and broke, while in their wake 
was a line as creamy as curds on the brown water. 
They kept well to the banks out of the road of 
swifter craft, and shortly the ferry-man pulled 
in toward a small wharf. 

“Here we be. Mistress Joyce,” he said. “Shall 
I stop o’ the way back?” 

T34 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“Nay/' she answered, stepping ashore. “I 
know not when I return." 

She stood watching as he pushed out again 
and then went up the footpath. 

“ 'Tis not every trip you carry such handsome 
freight as yon," said the water-man to the other 
with the rose. “Odsfish! 'Tis too pretty a bag- 
gage to be alone i' the low river-places. I'd give 
a three-farthing bit to know her business, gad- 
ding about i' such finery, an' ha' a half-mind to 
follow. I wager she's up to no good." 

The ferry-man turned on him furiously, his 
swarthy face aglow. 

“I'll pitch thee i' the Thames an' thou dost 
not still thy tongue, thou ferret-face!" he said 
thickly. “That black heart o' thine thinks naught 
but evil, an' thou art the vilest newsmonger and 
most arrant gossip i' the water! Let thee out 
one other such word, or set to wondering what 
the maid be after, an' I pitch thee out, neck an' 
crop. Then thou canst follow her at thy leisure." 

The water-man settled back sullenly. 

“I'd like to see thee try it," he muttered. “The 
jade belongs to Davenport o' the toll-house — 
there be no need to say more. Mischief runs i' 

135 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


the blood, an' men do not gather figs o' thistles. 
She be like him o' face an' like him o' heart." 

The ferry-man stopped his pulling with a jerk 
that made the boat rock and swing round. 

In another second he had grasped the speaker 
and lifted him in his great brown arms. The 
next he threw him with a mighty heave over into 
the river, then turned back to his place, settled 
his jerkin, pulled the rose closer to his ear, and 
started to work hard upstream, while his passen- 
gers laughed loudly and applauded him much. 

Such sudden action and evident prowess ap- 
pealed to the dullest among them. 

The water-man came to the surface, blew the 
water from his lungs, and struck out for shore, 
but his narrow face, twisted for a moment over 
his shoulder toward them, bore an unspoken 
threat. 


136 


THE RETURN OF THE QUEEN’S 

RING 












CHAPTER VI 


J OYCE sped along through the reeking, 
noisome streets, past evil-smelling fishmong- 
ers’ stalls and tawdry peddling booths. In the 
very midst of these rookeries stood the palace 
of the Bishop of Peterborough, with its high- 
walled grounds, and other mighty prelates of the 
Church had their dwellings nearby, all enclosed 
and shutting out the abject wretchedness that 
encroached too closely for comfort. 

Joyce hastened on and up and along the Strand. 
Men glanced at her curiously, but no one de- 
tained her. At last the red gables and many 
chimneys of Somerset House itself came in sight, 
as well as those miniature palaces occupied by 
members of the Court, and called the French 
buildings. 

On the Strand side, where Joyce approached, 
were rows of store-houses, coach-houses, and 
stables, for the palace, with its beautiful white 
fluted columns and marble water-stairs, faced the 

139 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

Thames. On the west side was the great tilt- 
ing-yard, and in the southeast angle were the 
Queen’s private apartments — the withdrawing- 
room, the famous yellow-room, the coffee-room, 
the stair-room, and the long gallery and cross 
gallery, both of which led into a rosery and 
pleasance, which again opened into a terraced 
garden set about with many yews clipped and 
fashioned after birds and beasts of unlikely de- 
sign. About all this side ran a wall of red brick, 
in which was set but one small gateway. A 
white sanded path led to it, and the gate was of 
oak, studded with iron. Joyce stopped in front 
of it and looked up at the heavy knocker, which 
was an iron-wrought thistle, head down. She 
drew her breath quickly. After a moment, 
though, her courage came, and lifting the knocker, 
which creaked with rust, she let it fall. It echoed 
loudly, and with it there came the sound of much 
laughing and cheering from the tilting-yard. 
This continued louder and louder for a little, 
then died into silence. No one answered the 
knock and no one went by on the road. A trem- 
bling seized the girl and her strength seemed to 
slip away, while a deadly faintness came over 
140 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


her. She dropped the little dog beside her and 
leaned against the wall; then, gathering all her 
strength, lifted the thistle knocker and let it fall 
a second time. 

At the same moment came the cheering again. 
Some noble gentleman had once more unseated 
some other noble gentleman, and the world ap- 
plauded the successful. 

Some fresh courage sprang up in the girl’s 
spirit, for it was so goodly a sound, that of 
those ringing English voices, so strong, so vital, 
so unstinted. 

The colour crept back into her face. 

‘Thou must go on, Joyce Davenport,” she said 
with quivering lips, “though, marry, ’tis like act- 
ing a play an’ hath no feeling o’ reality. Per- 
adventure i’ this world o’ trouble there be others 
that play as difficult a part, an’ with a better 
spirit. I like not a craven heart, nor did I think 
to own one.” 

As she spoke there came the sound of slow, 
uneven steps, and the chain was let down and 
the key turned stiffly in the lock. The door swung 
inward, and an ancient man of the Yeomen of 
the Guard stood in the entrance. His slashed 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


scarlet tabard had embroidered upon the back a 
full-blown golden rose, and he was lean and sil- 
ver-haired and held his beef-eater hat in a 
shaking, feeble old hand. 

He bowed to Joyce and stepped aside to let 
her pass. 

‘‘I mightily crave pardon of your ladyship,” 
he said. page told me the knocker fell once 
before. This gateway be little used. Perchance 
my ears fail me — and my eyes also — for I know 
you not as one of the Queen’s ladies. What 
can I for your honour?” 

Joyce glanced into the old, gentle face. 

‘‘Indeed, good sir,” she answered, “I am a 
stranger. I belong not to the Court in any mat- 
ter, yet I would speak with Her Majesty, if it 
be possible. See, I have a token which long ago 
she gave me. If I send it to her, she may be the 
more graciously willing to see me.” 

He bowed again and smiled. 

“Doubt not that, my lady. Her Majesty will 
surely see you. She hath straightly charged the 
guard to turn no one from the gate who urgently 
desires an audience — though, methinks, in this 
matter they use discretion. ’Tis the Queen’s 
142 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


whim to indulge the masses, and she ever calls 
herself ‘the mother of the people’ — whilst with 
the Court she hath as many humours as there 
be colours i’ the rainbow. But I be an old man 
whose tongue runs on. Prythee, wouldst intrust 
me with the token or wilt deliver it thyself?” 

“I will give it thee, and thank thee most heart- 
ily for bearing it,” said Joyce quickly, slipping 
the ring from her thumb and handing it to the 
yeoman. “I beseech you, where shall I wait? 
An’ may my little dog bear me company? He 
hath a shivering fear o’ being left alone.” 

“That may he,” said the man. “He is a dog 
o’ breeding, an’ such be valued i’ the palace.” 

“Not so,” returned the girl. “He is but a 
stray dog o’ the people, kind sir. Look you!” 
lifting his little paw. “See! he hath two broken 
toes on each forefoot, as is most cruelly de- 
manded by law ; we may not keep a dog o’ keen 
scent and that can run, as surely thou dost 
know.” 

“But thou art o’ the gentry?” answered the 
old yeoman, staring. 

“So thou dost say,” Joyce answered. “Lead 
on, good master, I pray thee.” 

143 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


He moved slowly along the path between the 
clipped yews, through the pleasance and rose- 
garden, where here and there a late blossom scat- 
tered its pink leaves on the grass and box hedges, 
and so to the palace. 

‘‘I will leave thee to wait i’ the stair-room. 
The tilt be over now, and if chance holds good 
I may meet the Queen’s party as they dismount. 
I be old and receive much favour, having served 
not only Her Grace, but the King, her father, 
for many a year. Aye, I be very old. All the 
gentlemen o’ the Court make way for me to 
approach whene’er they see I would speak with 
Her Majesty. I will surely give her this ring 
of thine myself; it shall na’ leave my keeping. 
Have patience for a little space, my lady, and 
word will reach thee here. Rest thee in yon 
chair. None will disturb thee.” 

‘T thank thee,” answered the girl, watching 
him as he opened the door that led into a hall 
beyond. In a way he seemed a friend, this white, 
weary-looking, ancient man, for he had spoken 
with a great gentleness. 

She listened with sinking spirits to the sound 
of his halting footsteps, growing fainter and 


144 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


farther off, and then rested her head against the 
high chair-back and waited. 

The old yeoman went on through the palace. 
None stayed him or questioned, though he was 
seldom seen away from the pleasance and gate- 
way he watched. He crossed the galleries, the 
audience-room, the ambassadors’ court, and passed 
the guard at the columned entrance facing the 
river. A little page in blue and silver, who was 
flitting up the marble steps, called out to him 
jestingly : 

^Thou art too late for the jousts. Master 
Ulick. Thou shouldst keep track o’ the hour 
better, for thou lookst like Father Time himself, 
an’ dost only need thy scythe an’ glass o’ sand. 
Why dost lurk i’ the rose-garden on such merry 
days? Old hearts like thine — ^marry, they need 
some joyance to warm them up, an’ the Queen 
would gladly let thee pass i’ the tilt-yard to view 
the sports.” 

‘"Aye,” he answered, ‘‘Her Majesty denies me 
naught; but I pine not for life’s joyance, little 
lad. I ask but peace an’ a good ending. Prythee, 
be the games done?” 

“Aye, an’ well done. Sir Harry is again cham- 

145 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


pion. He hath a wrist o’ steel, an’ unseated Sit 
Philip, an’ Lord Hunsdon, an’ that brown-faced 
Frenchman, the Count de Simier, three times 
hand-running! It made my blood hot to see it.” 

‘The Count de Simier? He who is envoy for 
His Highness, the Duke of Alenqon? Is that 
whom thou dost mean?” said the old guardsman 
softly, leaning toward the page. “Is that crafty 
face still about the palace? I thought he had 
been sped homeward.” 

“Thou art behind the times, good Ulick 1” cried 
the boy. “Aye, thou art left over from the last 
reign, old goodman! Didst not hear he hath 
been sped homeward and hath returned and still 
presses the suit for the Duke — though,” sinking 
his voice, “it looks vastly at times as though he 
pressed his own suit with a better heart. He is 
the Queen’s shadow. When they go i’ the Folly 
for a sail, he is at her elbow. When she dances 
wi’ Lord Leicester, his eyes burn an’ his great 
mouth sets in a hard line. I hate him, for that 
he gripped me once by the shoulder an’ fair 
pitched me out of his way. But, there sounds 
the trumpet! Watch, an’ thou wilt see the gates 
fly back ! I must on with a message.” 

146 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


The three mellow notes had scarcely died away 
when the metal gates of the tilt-yard were thrown 
wide and the gay company poured out. 

First came the royal bargemen, who were 
privileged to see the sports; next a company of 
swordsmen; then the Yeomen of the Guard, in 
their slashed scarlet tabards, with the golden rose 
on the back. Following them, certain servants 
of the palace in sombre hues, led by the Master 
of the Household, robed brightly, and with the 
chain of office about his neck and the keys at 
his girdle. A scattering of pages — gay little 
parti-coloured figures — came next ; then the 
Queen’s Guard, afterward the lords and ladies 
of the Court, most of them afoot, and lastly the 
gentlemen of the tourney, with the Queen herself, 
mounted on her white palfrey, in their midst. 

The different groups separated before the pal- 
ace and went their ways with much merriment. 

The old yeoman stepped forward and waited 
while Sir Henry Lee aided Her Majesty to dis- 
mount. She came up the great marble stairs 
slowly, and in her purple velvet habit and with 
the plumed riding-hat shading her gold-red hair 
and vivacious face, was a most regal figure. Time 

147 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


had not yet been cruel or robbed her greatly, and 
though among the ladies who followed were some 
of more brilliant beauty, none had the Queen’s 
stateliness or distinction of bearing. 

“I will surely have thee a laurel-wreath made 
of beaten silver,” she was saying laughingly to 
Sir Henry. ‘Ty my faith! ’twas an admirable 
pleasant sight for me to see thee unseat our friend 
of France, much as I like and admire him. My 
gentlemen must be always foremost in the mimic 
wars, as well as those that are of import.” 

‘‘We would be first in love as well as in war, 
Your Majesty,” said the champion, bending 
toward her. 

Elizabeth smiled at the answer. 

“That is as it may be,” she returned enig- 
matically. 

“Alas! Your Grace,” he continued, “the wounds 
upon our hearts show not, nor bring us pity as 
other outward ones.” 

“I fear naught for thy heart. Sir Harry,” the 
Queen answered with a short laugh. “No arrow 
rankles in it yet. If I be wrong, I give thee 
pity — and pity is akin to love. Marry, thou art 
a fair courtier as well as a valiant fighter.” 

148 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“I would have failed had I not caught thy 
smile across the dust o’ the fray,” he said eagerly. 
“At that moment I was scant of breath and done, 
but I gripped my horse hard and fought on.” 

“Would that my smile could always aid thee 
so,” the Queen returned; “thou shouldst surely 
have it. But see, yonder is old Ulick waiting. 
Now what hath brought him from his rose-gar- 
den, I wonder? He hath an anxiety on his 
mind or I read not his old face, and I have read 
it since I was a child. Bid him hither. Sir 
Philip,” she said, turning to Sir Philip Sidney. 

The dozen or more ladies and gentlemen all 
waited by the columns while the ancient guards- 
man approached. 

He bowed low to the Queen, his scarlet beef- 
eater sweeping the floor. 

“An’ it please Your Majesty’s Grace, I bring 
thee a token,” he said in his quavering voice. 

“A token, good Ulick ?” she said smiling. “In 
truth, thou art ever trusty. Give it me with 
despatch.” 

He handed her the ring and stepped back. 

The Queen gave a little start of surprise. 

“My thumb-ring!” she cried, holding it up so 
149 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


those who gathered near might see. “The ring 
the Egyptian soothsayer gave my father in the 
year he was crowned ! He bid him not to keep it, 
but to part with it as he saw fit, and always as 
a token. Tt will return to thee without fail,' 
said the strange man. And now I bethink me 
he was a priest of the old faith of Isis, and could 
by dreams foretell events. ‘Naught will be able 
to keep the ring from thee,’ he said, ‘neither the 
living nor the dead, nor time nor distance, as 
long as thou and thine rule in Britain. Fear not 
to give it in token of what thou wilt, to gentle 
or simple, the ring will come back, and with it 
bring a blessing.’ ” The Queen spoke with rapid 
intensity, as though she were moved, and a 
bright colour came and went in her olive-tinted 
skin, making her face for the moment almost 
girlish. Without doubt, strong-willed as she 
was, Elizabeth did not wholly escape from the 
superstition of the times. 

“My lords and ladies,” she continued, “it is 
most marvellously true that the King parted from 
this odd token time and again to most unlikely 
folk of all degree, and invariably it returned, 
bringing somewhat to his advantage. He be- 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


queathed it to me with the Egyptian story, and 
I likewise gave it, first to one and then another, 
with little thought, and it came home as the mag- 
net to the needle. But, by my faith, it is years 
since I slipped it on the hand of a little maid 
on London Bridge and bid her show it at the 
palace-gate if she desired at any time to enter. 
Methinks,” turning it about on her slender thumb, 
“it hath adventured far — but all is well with the 
world — it hath returned with good fortune at 
heel.^’ 

“Art assured. Your Majesty, that it is the 
very ring?” questioned a grave, unbending man 
close by. 

“My Lord of Walsingham is nothing if not 
sceptical,” Elizabeth returned mockingly. 

“Good Your Grace, it doth not well in this 
sorry world to be over-credulous,” he answered 
softly. 

“Satisfy thyself, thou clever man,” said the 
Queen. “Pray thou he convinced. Thou didst 
know it of old. Here on the under side of the 
red-veined green onyx is the mystical scarabseus, 
and on top a roughly cut *E.' My Lord of Guil- 
ford chipped the letter with a diamond when he 

151 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


wore the ring in his dolorous cell in the Tower. 
’Twas drawn from his hand on the scaffold and 
returned to me, blood incrusted,'' she said with 
a slight shudder. 

“Can Your Majesty recall clearly the little maid 
or the occasion of giving it to her keeping?” said 
Lord Burghley, after a pause. 

“That can I vividly, Cecil.” 

“Thou dost know my memory is tiresomely 
good and tenacious of the veriest trifles. Twas 
a marvellous fair child with eyes that haunted 
one — sea-blue and black-lashed. Her name, if I 
heard it, I confess hath slipped from mind, but 
an old sailor lifted her to the saddle-bow that 
she might kiss our hand, and something in her 
face drew my heart to it, and on impulse — as is 
my way — I gave her the ring. At the day's end, 
when in my chamber, I discovered that this child 
bore a perfect likeness to a small portrait which 
ever hangs on the south wall — but 'tis of no 
import. Come hither, Ulick.” 

He came forward, bowing. 

“Who brought this token?” 

“ Twas a lady, Your Majesty.” 

“A lady of quality?” asked the Queen. 

152 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘‘Aye/’ he answered, “a proper lady, lovely 
as a flower ; an’ though my eyes be old, they were 
dazzled by the whiteness o’ her skin an’ the glint 
o’ her hair. She begs you will speak wi’ her, 
an’ waits Your Grace’s pleasure i’ the stair-room.” 

“Of a surety we will speak with her and give 
her thanks,” replied the Queen. “The return of 
our ring is a goodly sign, I doubt not. Serve 
this fair guest of ours as thou dost know how, 
Ulick. And now,” turning to those about her, 
“now, my lords, we will detain you no further. 
The jousts were pleasant pastime, but wearisome.” 
Bowing lightly, she swept on through the hall 
with her following of ladies. 


153 



I®' 





;-f '!>>■ -. . ; 










QUEEN ELIZABETH HEARS OF 
RICHARD DAVENPORT AGAIN 



CHAPTER VII 


U LICK, with the aid of a little page, served 
Joyce with supper and gave her his 
message. 

The girl looked at the service of silver and 
gold, and the damask napkin broidered with the 
royal coat-of-arms. There were cakes on crystal 
dishes, and different kinds of fruit, and a flagon 
of wine, yellow and sparkling. 

“ ’Tis very beautiful,” she said wistfully, “but, 
good sir, I lack an appetite. Will the Queen 
tarry long, think you?” 

“That is as the mood seizes her,” returned the 
yeoman. “But meseemeth she will see thee anon. 
She took a rare lively interest in the return of 
the thumb-ring, and straightway pulled off her 
glove and slipped it on. Aye, she even remem- 
bered parting from it years ago.” 

Joyce leaned forward, her eyes wide. 
“Remembered ?” 

“Aye, minded her truly, and did on that the 

157 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


whole story unfold. I gainsay there be those at 
Court wish ofttimes our lady was not blessed 
with so long a memory, though she never re- 
members aught she would forget, or the kind- 
nesses she hath conferred, being mightily tactful 
and gracious. 

‘‘But to thy supper, my lady. Coax thy taste, 
I beseech thee, and at the very least take a cup 
o’ cordial. I was ordered to serve thee as best 
I knew, and must obey.” 

“Why, I will surely drink to please thee, then, 
said Joyce, smiling into his friendly face and 
raising the cup. “I’ faith, thou art vastly kind.” 

“Not so,” he replied. “I serve the Queen in 
serving thee. There, that is right. ’Tis a warm, 
sunny wine o’ the south o’ Spain, and already 
brings a touch o’ colour to thy cheeks. 

“I will go, but will leave thee this page. 
He is a wilful, heedless lad at best, but, beshrew 
me, my lady, he hath his orders, an’ thou canst 
use him as messenger shouldst thou desire aught.” 

So saying, Ulick bowed and shambled off, and 
the little, heedless page settled down on the carved 
black oak bench that ran some distance around 
the wainscotting, and swung his wilful heds idly 

158 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


back and forth. He made a glittering patch of 
colour against the sombre walls, and the silver 
lace on his blue tabard caught the light as he 
stirred about with a boy’s restlessness. The yel- 
low lovelocks on his shoulders were sadly tossed, 
for he had spent the afternoon in the tilt-yard 
with the rest, and there had been a fresh, strong 
wind. Presently, with some joy, he spied the 
little wire-haired dog and snapped his fingers at 
it encouragingly. 

‘^Hath he accomplishments, my lady?” said 
the boy. ‘‘Methinks he doth cock his ear most 
wisely.” 

Joyce smiled back. 

‘"Nay,” she said. ‘T fear me he hath only 
a faithful heart to recommend him. If he had 
been wise, he would ha’ stayed with Silas.” 

“Wi’ Silas?” queried the boy. “Is that a man- 
servant o’ thine?” 

“Prythee, far more,” responded the girl warm- 
ly. “He is a right good friend. But thy par- 
don — I forgot that thou couldst not know.” 

“None need ask pardon o’ the pages,” he said. 
“But wilt not bid thy little dog run over here? 
I would make acquaintance with him. Come 

159 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


thee,” whistling; ‘Te not coy and difficult, small 
one. Drop not thy tail, for i’ faith I be not so 
monstrous large and fierce thou need shiver at 
me. Now, pick up heart an’ put thy paws on 
my knees. So. Why, soul’s life!” he cried, 
springing up, “I thought him a thoroughbred, 
and he is but a stray! He hath the broken toes 
on his two forefeet. He is not thy dog, my 
lady?” 

Joyce sighed. 

“Aye, marry, little page,” she answered, “he 
is mine.” 

The boy looked puzzled. 

“Perchance he followed thee, and mayhap thou 
art weary. Didst look on at the tilt? ’Twas 
over-long for women, though the Queen ne’er 
leaves till the very end.” 

“Nay,” said the girl, “I saw not the tilt.” 

“Then will I tell thee of it to while the time 
by,” he responded in friendly fashion, and be- 
gan relating with much gusto the deeds of valour 
of the mimic war, but he did not deign to further 
notice the small dog. 

The dusk settled heavy and gray with fog 
against the palace-windows. 

i6o 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


A servant in black came through the halls and 
lit the cressets of candles that branched out here 
and there. 

It grew quiet where Joyce and the little page 
sat, save for the babbling of his fresh young 
voice. Now and then there sounded the distant 
muHkd closing of a door, for everything in the 
palace seemed velvet bound and made no harsh 
noise. Then a footstep echoed down a corridor. 
Once there was the tinkling of a lute as some 
player strolled from one room to another. 

The page finished his tale-telling and yawned 
behind his hand, while now and then he moved 
from place to place. 

Joyce offered him the cakes on the salver, and 
these, after some demurring, he took, one by 
one. 

“Her Majesty will send for thee after she hath 
dined,” he said cheerfully. “Beshrew me! but 
that is a vastly pretty gown of thine an’ suits 
thee rarely. Was’t cut after an English pat- 
tern?” 

“I know not, indeed.” 

“Well, I trow ’twill be all the rage when once 
the Court hath seen it,” he went on. “The tables 
l6i 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


be set i’ the state dining-hall while the French 
Prince or his Envoy be here. ’Tis all mightily 
gay an’ beautiful, an’ I be oft there to pass the 
comfits. Marry, they always save for me the 
merry- thought of every fowl, an/ the maids of 
honour — or even the Queen herself, i’ she be i’ 
the humour — will wish, an’ pull it with me. I 
will let thee, next time, an’ thou dost stop at 
Court, for, my faith, thou art prettier than any 
o' them," lowering his voice. 

*‘Say not so,” said the girl smiling; “it hath 
a sound o’ treason. Surely they teach thee such 
speeches over-early. But I grieve to keep thee 
here; thou canst away — I mind not solitude.” 

“Nay,” he answered, straightening his small 
figure, “I would not leave thee or any woman 
here alone. Know you this room be haunted o’ 
certain nights? Old Lady Somerset, who on a 
day fell down dead in a fit at the base o’ yonder 
stair, walks slowly through it wi’ her face all 
drawn, an’ she maketh dismal moan. Not one 
o’ the maids dare come here after dark, for she 
hath been truly seen an’ is a grewsome sight. 
But hark thee! here comes Ulick.” 

“Wilt follow me to the yellow-room, my 
162 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


lady?” said the yeoman. “Her Majesty re- 
ceives thee there.” 

“I thank thee,” replied the girl, rising and 
unfastening the cloak, which fell from her shoul- 
ders. 

They passed through the gallery, the lights 
growing brighter as they went on. There were 
great jars of late roses here and there in the 
halls, and silver bowls of spiced rose-leaves. The 
air was warm and heavy with their perfume. 
From one room drifted the sound of mellow 
English voices speaking in French, and at a turn 
of the hall a knot of ladies, all laughing and 
chatting, brushed past them. They opened their 
eyes wonderingly at the girl by old Ulick, but 
rustled on without pause. Presently Ulick stopped 
by a door hung with great curtains of yellow 
velvet and spoke to a page who waited. 

“We would pass,” he said. “Her Majesty 
desires us within.” 

On an instant the curtains were drawn and they 
entered. The room was cool and fresh, and for 
a breath Joyce was dazzled as by a sudden burst 
of sunlight, for the walls were hung with soft 
yellow silk and lit by many candles. There were 
163 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


tiger-skin rugs on the floor, and the place was 
ceiled with white enamel picked out in curious 
pattern with gold leaf. 

Then she went forward to where the Queen 
sat, a radiant figure clothed in a long, glistening 
gown of tissue-of-silver, with bodice and far- 
thingale of Coruscian taffeta, thickly covered with 
little pearls. 

The girl was only conscious of that one pres- 
ence, and made the grand courtesy, as the ladies 
of St. Anne had taught her. When she rose 
and looked up, she noticed two gentlemen stand- 
ing by. One of them uttered a soft foreign ex- 
clamation and stepped a little back that she might 
come nearer. 

‘‘We have received the ‘token,’ ” said the Queen 
graciously, “and would give thee thanks for bear- 
ing it hither, though we dream not how it came 
to thy keeping. Who art thou? Which one of 
our nobles hath so lovely a daughter and yet hath 
unkindly hidden her so long?” 

Joyce raised her face, and her lips trembled. 

“Good Your Majesty,” she answered, “what 
I would say, I would say to thee alone, if that 
be possible.” 


164 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Elizabeth turned to Lord Burghley and spoke 
in a low voice. 

“Thou hadst best withdraw, thou and the 
Count, though not far. Is’t not a wondrous beau- 
tiful child? She attracts me mightily, and I 
pray Heaven give me grace to deal with any who 
may have done her harm, for if I read rightly 
she is in grief of some quality. Pray thee bid 
the Dowager, Lady Stafford, come hither.” 

The gentlemen passed out and the curtains fell 
close again. 

“Now, my pretty one,” said the Queen gently, 
“we are alone, for of truth I count not old Ulick. 
Come, tell thy story.” 

Joyce glanced up, and there were tears on her 
lashes. 

“I had thought to fear thee. Your Grace,” she 
said softly, “an’ I do not. Perchance one should 
but reverence the Queen; yet, if I dared, me- 
thinks I would love thee.” 

Elizabeth leaned toward her, and a strange ex- 
pression flashed for a moment into her eyes. 

“The Queen commands reverence,” she said 
rapidly, “but of a truth she cannot command 
love; neither is it a commodity that may be 

165 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


bought and sold, and that which passes for love 
at Court is often as a gold mixed with much 
alloy. Therefore, when love is offered us — which 
is of a pure sort — we take it gladly and as a 
gift.’' Then her tone changed. 

“Now again, of which of our nobles art thou 
the daughter?” 

Joyce shook her head. 

“Nay, I be not the daughter of a noble,” she 
said, “but of one Richard Davenport, whom some 
count a dangerous man, and who, by Your Majes- 
ty’s permission, is toll-taker at the north tower 
of London Bridge.” 

The Queen started. 

“That strangely handsome man again!” she 
exclaimed. “That evil man, whose life we spared 
at the crowning! Say you so? But how come 
you of such gentle speech, and why art thou in 
this garb?” 

“As for my manner and ways of speech. Your 
Grace,” said Joyce, “it may be I have fashioned 
them somewhat after those of the gentlewomen 
of St. Anne’s Convent, for I was long in their 
care; an’ for my gown — i’ faith, ’twas ne’er 
sewn for me, but hath rested many years in a 
i66 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Spanish sea-chest that was wreckage. My father 
desired me to wear it against my wedding, which 
he said would take place to-day when he returned 
with the priest and Master Gillian at six o’ the 
bell.” 

“Thy wedding! Then why hast come to 
us?” said Elizabeth, smiling. “Most maids of 
thy years wed right merrily.” 

“Nay, Your Majesty,” returned the girl quick- 
ly, “ ’tis not so with me. I ha’ fearfully angered 
my father, for I ha’ told him I will not wed wi’ 
Gillian o’ the bear-gardens, an’ I will not. ’Tis 
by reason of all this I have come to thee, to 
entreat thy protection. He hath sworn I shall 
marry this man, an’ if I will not, hath promised 
me worse than death. It is because there is no 
place i’ London where he would not seek an’ 
find me, I come here. When he is angry, he is 
mad — quite mad — an’ fears neither God nor the 
law.” 

The Queen rose and spoke a quick word be- 
neath her breath. 

“By the Crown!” she exclaimed. “I wonder 
that such things should be in England! The 
men here be not Turks, to buy and sell women 
167 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


or force them to their way o’ thinking! ’Tis a 
free land, with liberty of action allowed to all. 
Thy courage was good, little one. But come, 
how didst hap to think of the Queen as willing 
to help thee?” 

“ ’Twas but a sudden fancy,” said Joyce. “I 
crave thy pardon if it be a wrong one. I be- 
thought me of the thumb-ring thou didst give 
me on a summer day long past, when I was 
small, and Silas lifted me to thy saddle that I 
might kiss thy hand. It all flashed i’ my mind, 
and also that thou hadst bidden me show the 
ring at the palace if ever I desired to see thee. 
I doubt me, though, I am over-bold and merit 
thy displeasure.” 

‘‘God’s blessing of thy heart I” answered Eliza- 
beth impulsively, “indeed thou art not ! No sub- 
ject of all the realm asks protection against wrong 
that it is not freely granted. 

“But come — this man thou wilt not marry — 
hast somewhat against him?” 

“I love him not. Your Grace,” returned Joyce, 
the red flying to her face. 

Elizabeth gave a little laugh that suddenly 
broke. 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘‘Love!” she said, her lip curling. “Dost be- 
lieve it hath aught to do with marriage ? Heigh- 
ho! thou art truly young. It may be thou dost 
love some other more goodly man than this bear- 
keeper. We ask thee not. The Queen will be 
thy friend. If any would take thee away now, 
they must come through the palace first. We 
will speak anon of what place thou wilt fill.” 

Joyce knelt, and, lifting a fold of the silver 
gown, pressed it to her lips. “I would serve 
Your Grace most happily. The ladies of St. 
Anne’s have taught me many things. I can 
broider and work in tambour stitchery. I learnt 
somewhat in the still-room, and know the vir- 
tues of different herbs, and can distil sweet wa- 
ters. The convent women have fair skins,” she 
went on rapidly, “and compound creams and 
lotions that work wonders, all of which I make. 
Moreover, a Swedish sister taught me those 
passes o’er the face that best dispel a humour, or 
pain o’ a nerve, for there be a charm in the tips 
o’ one’s fingers. An’ — grant me thy patience — 
above all, I can while the hours by reading aloud 
in either French or Latin. Thou wilt let me 
serve thee, wilt thou not?” 

169 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“That will I, pretty one,” answered Elizabeth, 
smiling; “but here comes Lady Stafford; I will 
place thee in her charge. To-morrow we will 
see. 

A silver-haired old lady gowned in black lace 
came forward. 

“See, dear Lady Stafford,” said the Queen, 
“give this child a little apartment near thine, and 
be kind as thou art ever; also send a page to me 
on thy way out.” 

Joyce courtesied, and spoke once more. 

“I would pray no harm come to my father 
by reason of my doings,” she said anxiously. 
“He hath been ever kind till of late.” 

The Queen drew her brows together. 

“We will remember thy request,” she said. 
“So, rest well, little one; the palace is a safe 
place.” 

When Lady Stafford and Joyce had gone and 
the curtains fell into place, the Queen sat still 
in her great chair, save for the tapping of her 
fingers upon the arm of it. Her oval face was 
grave and older in repose than when it was ani- 
mated by swiftly passing expressions. 

“That evil man!” she said softly. “That 
170 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


handsome, evil man ! Aye, tales have reached me 
of him from time to time. ’Twas folly to be 
merciful. And he had swung on Tyburn, this 
child had not been born. So do I incur re- 
sponsibilities,” she ended with a short laugh. 
‘Tut ne’er saw I anything so lovely. There is 
blue blood in her veins by some mischance, I 
doubt not. ’Tis a naughty world and full o’ 
briars and tangles. Marry, what said she? Yes. 

“ T thought to fear thee. Your Grace, an’ / 
do not. If I dared, I would love thee — I would 
love thee.’ 

“Ah, Cedric!” as a page entered, “bid Lord 
Burghley hither. Are the dancers assembled, 
and the musicians — have they the balcony?” 

“Yes, Your Majesty. All weary for your 
coming.” 

“I had forgotten,” she said, “but will not keep 
them waiting long. How goes the night? Is it 
fair weather?” 

“There is a heavy fog from the sea, Your 
Grace, and all the vine-leaves are dripping 
with it.” 

“Bid them light the grounds well, and set 
link-boys at the postern gates.” 

171 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


will, Your Majesty,” he said. 

‘Then go, and forget not my message to Lord 
Burghley, for thou art ever a feather-brain little 
lad.” 

When he was gone, she noticed the old yeo- 
man. 

“Why, Ulick ! Art still there ? Go thy ways,” 
she said. 

When the curtains closed again, the Queen sat 
alone during one of those rare moments that came 
to her but by stress of circumstances. 

For a space her mind left the details of that 
delicate diplomatic game that she was ever play- 
ing. She forgot the many brilliant figures that 
her white hands continually moved on what one 
calls “the world’s chess-board.” She rested from 
the intrigues, the ceaseless watchfulness, the con- 
stant acting of a part which she loved, yet which 
taxed every nerve, and, letting the tangled threads 
of Destiny go, she thought only of Davenport’s 
daughter. 

“Meseemeth I am at last bewitched by one of 
my own sex,” she said, half aloud, “and by the 
potent charm of youth and sweet-hearted inno- 
cence. Never before did I see a girl’s face that 
172 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


so allured me. If there is not written upon it 
Truth and Constancy — the two virtues men most 
lack — verily it doth belie itself and I have read 
a wrong. Ah! Truth and Constancy — the things 
that elude me, that I seek by night and day, and 
rarely find. 

“What was it she said, again? T thought to 
fear thee, an’ I do not. I would even love thee 
an’ I dared.’ My faith! ’tis something to hear 
such words from honest lips. The child hath a 
good courage to utter them, and ’tis a quality 
that likes me well in either man or woman. She 
was not overawed, neither, nor filled with con- 
fusion, but told her story in straight simplicity. 
Marry, she shall find she hath not trusted me in 
vain. And this toll-man of the bridge, who by 
some mischance of nature is her father, hath been 
troublesome long enough ; he shall learn his 
lesson.” 

Lord Burghley entered the room at the moment, 
and the Queen turned to him with her little in- 
scrutable smile. 

“We have purloined five minutes that doth 
rightly belong to the Court,” she said, rising, 
“and having spent it in meditation, as the fathers 

173 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


of the Church recommend, are thereby refreshed 
of soul. Lead on to where the dancers wait, 
Cecil. Doubtless, though they be outwardly 
wreathed in smiles, they inwardly rage at our 
wanton delay of their pleasure.” 


174 


THE NIGHT OF JOY. SIR RICH- 
ARD DAVENPORT CAVERDEN’S 
DEATH 



CHAPTER VIII 


T he fog hung like a gray pall over the 
Thames, and to be abroad meant danger. 
Great craft and small made anchor as best they 
could and where they could, following the law 
of self-preservation ; but a few boats, under pres- 
sure of that necessity which knows no law, hugged 
the shore and stole ghostlike through the mist, 
ringing a bell now and then that sounded hollow 
and eerie as that rung by the priests at plague^ 
time for the passing of souls, while the lanterns 
hung at their mastheads or prows glimmered like 
will-o’-the-wisps out of the gray and into the 
gray again. 

The dancing-halls on the river-streets kept car- 
nival, and were filled with a motley crowd of 
sailors from all the world’s ports, and their 
sweethearts of the moment. They were given 
over to music and boisterous love-making, and 
mad mirth and merriment grew madder and mer- 
rier as the hours went by and the fog crept across 

177 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


the water and rolled closer against windows and 
doors. 

The drinking-houses and taverns were full, too, 
and in the gaming-houses on the Strand there 
might be heard the constant clink of gold upon 
the tables, while fierce words and bitter often 
broke in upon it. There was no watch about 
on such a night to dog the people and note their 
every action. No hand of the law to fall heavy 
on a. man’s shoulder and drag him to Newgate, 
however just his quarrel. So knives were drawn 
where words came short of settling differences. 
Often the blood-letting but cooled the head, for 
afterward the dicing went on right gayly, and 
the gold and silver bits rang together or were 
swept into one pocket or another with the high 
good-will of all concerned. But in other cases 
where opinions clashed, and the gentlemen inter- 
ested maintained them with a blow as well as a 
word, the blow was struck a thought too hard, 
or driven with a too great nicety to the centre 
of some danger point, that Heaven knows there 
are enough of in every man’s body. At such 
times there was a swift and unresisting fall, the 
sudden sobering of the crowd of fraying and 
178 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


fighting men, and then — exit one — for the 
Thames was near and kept its secrets. 

At the gates of those houses owned by the 
wealthy prelates of the Church there stood little 
shivering knots of link-boys, stationed there to 
tender assistance to any who had lost their way 
in the labyrinth of by-streets. 

The gentle Bishop of Peterborough (he whom 
the Queen called her ‘‘dove with the silver wings,'’ 
by reason of the snowy hair which haloed his 
saintly face) was at Somerset House, but his 
mansion glittered with light, and was thrown 
wide open, for his servants knew well that on 
dangerous nights they were to shelter any who 
were lost, bewildered, or turned about, and so 
knocked at the gates. 

Somerset House itself hung like a fairy palace 
on the bank of the river. Every window shone 
with a warm yellow glow, and through the great 
halls swept the sound of music and dancing feet, 
for the rooms had grown overheated, and the 
outer doors opening on to the colonnade were 
thrown wide in spite of the mist. Now and then 
a figure would thread its way in and out between 
the white fluted pillars, and there would follow 
179 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


the pleasant scent of fresh tobacco and the red 
glearn of a pipe, as the noble gentleman who 
wearied of dancing looked out at the night and 
communed with himself during that dear-bought 
moment he could snatch from the affairs of the 
times. 

The Queen’s barge, the little painted Folly, 
beloved of the people, with its high gilded prow 
and red silken sails, was swathed in canvas and 
hung with lanterns, so that as it rocked back and 
forth at the foot of the marble water-stair, it 
seemed changed into some huge uncanny river- 
beast. 

The guards, doing double duty, tramped about 
the palace-grounds hour in and hour out, and 
they grumbled to their hearts’ content. Accord- 
ing to them, there was less need of vigilance 
instead of more, as Her Majesty had commanded, 
and one and another, taking French leave, slipped 
from his place and vanished, to return anon in 
higher spirits, but with less inclination to stand 
firmly upon his legs. 

The link-boys at the postern gates turned blue 
and cursed their luck as the long night wore on. 
There was no friendly crack or crevice they could 
i8o 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

discover where the link-stick could be thrust and 
left upright, or they might have curled down and 
dozed awhile even in discomfort. No, every 
mother’s son must do sentinel duty till relieved 
— must fill his wretched lungs with the thick air, 
shake in his shoes, hold his flickering light aloft 
with numb fingers, and feel the damp creep 
through his leather jerkin till it reached his bones, 
while within the palace the pages went in blue 
and silver and were gorged with sweets, and 
everywhere it was warm and rose-scented, and 
the Court danced. 

Aye, they danced. 

They stepped no longer the grave, slow coran- 
to; it had given place to the galliard and other 
swifter dances. Here and there were scraps of 
gossamer lace upon the waxed floor of the great 
ballroom, or love-knots of ribbon and gold thread. 

The musicians in the balcony overhead played 
wildly on their lutes and tabrets, as though the 
very spirit of incantation was upon them, for 
an ecstasy of mirth seemed to have entered into 
the souls of those who moved back and forth in 
a brilliant maze of colour below, though out- 
of-doors the world wrapped itself about like a 
i8i 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

gray friar, and waited in still patience for the 
morning. 

The Queen, from where she sat, circled by her 
favourites, looked out over the scene and was 
graciously pleased. She had gathered around 
her the very flower of the world — the wit, wis- 
dom, beauty, and chivalry of England — and it 
gave her keen delight to dazzle and impress this 
dark, strange envoy of the young Duke of Anjou, 
this handsome, mysterious man, the Count de 
Simier, who was ever at her side speaking for 
himself through his amorous eyes, and, as occa- 
sion offered, with his smooth, seductive tongue, 
for Alengon. She would have him acknowledge 
the grace, as well as the majesty, of the English 
Court — a thing he was over-slow to do. 

Somewhat of the excitement of the hour had 
come to the Queen also, and, although she wea- 
ried of dancing, she still looked on with lively 
interest. 

“I pray you, my Lord,” she said, turning her 
animated face toward the French Count, ^Hhis 
time admit that never before was so much beauty 
gathered together in one little spot! See yonder 
the young Duchess of Norfolk. The dimpled 
182 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


duchess/ as they name her — is she not of perfect 
pink-and-white freshness ? And Lady Rich, danc- 
ing yonder with Sir Philip Sidney, who, man-like, 
sighs and pines for her now she is denied him, 
though in the past he was monstrous indifferent 
— saw you any woman in France so wondrous 
fair as she? As Lady Penelope Devereau she 
was famous, but as Lady Rich she is of even a 
more sparkling beauty/’ 

‘^Good Your Grace,” he answered softly in his 
clipped English, ‘‘I have no eyes for aught be- 
yond this throne of thine. But, apart from that, 
and as for the beauty of your ladies yonder, it 
doth seem to me it hath been far eclipsed to-night 
by that fair child you gave audience to in the 
yellow-room.” 

Elizabeth smiled. 

‘‘In truth,” she answered, “you are of rare 
discernment, my Lord. Both you and my cham- 
pion, Sir Henry Lee (who passed her in the hall), 
are of the same opinion, while as for Lord Burgh- 
ley, that wise gentleman, so seldom beguiled 
through the eye or moved to curiosity, is now 
all questions regarding my little visitor.” 

“Which Your Grace will gratify by answer- 
ing?” 


183 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘‘I will determine on that later,” returned the 
Queen. “Yet, believe me, there be few tangles 
my Lord Burghley does not, without our help, 
unravel.” 

De Simier stirred uneasily. 

“I must bring my courage to the sticking 
point,” he said after a moment, “and beseech 
Your Majesty again to send some final word 
to the Duke. I pen a letter to-night when the 
dance ends, and fain would give him some mes- 
sage of satisfaction. Methinks I am but a poor 
ambassador and press his suit but indifferently 
well. Still, in this matter. Your Grace, you have 
ever listened kindly, and we have hope that you 
will at last follow the dictates of your own heart 
and will ” 

The Queen laughed lightly, and then a shade 
swept over her face. 

“You know us not, my Lord,” she replied, 
tapping him with her fan. “A Queen of England 
follows not her own will, and she hath but scant 
leisure to follow the ways of her own heart. We 
will reserve our answer to these serious questions, 
my dear Count, for to-night. Be content with 
this much : We like you well — though, perchance, 
184 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


more for your zeal than the matter of your 
suit.” 

De Simier frowned. 

‘‘ Tis as always,” he murmured, shrugging his 
shoulders a trifle. 

Elizabeth bent toward him. 

“The times are unsettled, my Lord,” she said, 
speaking rapidly. “It may be they breed dis- 
turbances we wot not of. Of late, as you know, 
the fearsome comet that foretold the night of 
St. Bartholomew hath, they say, again appeared. 
It hangs above the Tower, though faint and far 
away. Our mind is distracted by many thoughts. 
Aye, even at this merry hour, with a dim fore- 
boding of approaching trouble. We catch at 
good omens, however slight they be,” looking 
down at the Egyptian ring on her thumb and 
turning it slowly around, “for we would banish 
care, when ’tis possible, and take what cheer we 
may from this passing show of life. But, 
enough. Of your kindness do me the pleasure 
to search for my Lord Burghley and bid him 
hither.” 

De Simier stepped back, bowing deeply, and 
those gentlemen who pressed forward to fill his 

185 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


place noticed that his face was whitened with 
some checked feeling of impatience or resent- 
ment. 

In and out of the dancers he threaded his way, 
his suit of russet silk overlaid with brocaded 
gold and his jewelled orders and buckles making 
him a brilliant figure even there. Now and then 
he glanced about with keen eyes, but no smiling 
face, however lovely, had power to stay him, 
though many would have done so, for the French 
Envoy, with his dark indifference and wide 
knowledge of men and affairs, was altogether 
fascinating to most of the Court beauties. He 
went silently on his quest through the palace, 
after assuring himself that the man he sought 
was not among the throng in the throne-room 
or antechamber. As he reached the marble court 
leading to the colonnade, however, he encoun- 
tered Lord Burghley walking up and down quite 
alone, and smoking. De Simier delivered to him 
the Queen’s message and stopped a moment to 
pass some word of the night, when, on a sudden, 
loud shouting and confused sounds of strife came 
to them from the river-front. One of the heavy 
doors was still standing open. The two gentle- 
186 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

men started forward and looked out. There at 
the head of the water-stair, through the mist, 
they could dimly discern a swaying knot of men 
and lights. Evidently the guards were engaged 
in a fray of some violent nature. As they 
watched, the group parted and a man broke away 
and bounded forward. He came on with fleet 
lightness, his head back, his feet scarcely touch- 
ing the ground. Mounting the palace stairs, he 
brushed by Lord Burghley and De Simier, who, 
desiring to take no part in a night-brawl, and 
seeing the guard at his heels, made no effort to 
stop him. Four of the guard came on pell-mell, 
cumbered as they were with their swinging lan- 
terns and halberds, and moreover being none too 
certain of foot. Once within the hall, the man 
turned at bay and struck right and left, madly, 
with the iron-rimmed punt-pole he carried. The 
first who followed went down heavily, the second 
and third staggered to one side at the fierce, sud- 
den onslaught, but the last guardsman, a lusty 
fellow, dropping everything, drew a short knife 
from his belt and with a leap forward drove it 
furiously into the man’s side. There he left it, 
hilt up, in the buff jerkin. The man sank back- 

187 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


ward, making no sound, and the fray that had 
lasted scarce three moments was over. 

Lord Burghley wheeled toward the guards- 
men, who drew close together, his face reddened, 
his eyes flashing. 

‘‘You vandals!” he said in his low-pitched 
voice, cold and cutting as steel, “you scurvy hire- 
lings! Is it so you keep watch for Her Majesty? 
There’s not a sober fellow amongst you.” 

The wounded man, lying at length upon the 
mosaic floor, raised himself slowly on one elbow. 

“Aye, marry,” he said with a short laugh, “they 
be damnable fools! Drunk as lords, all o’ them. 
They be o’ rare discernment an’ bold front, an’ 
take every honest man for a knave, an’ every 
knave for an honest man. They know not a 
good citizen from a cut-purse. For me, I came 
peaceably by the main entrance — to Mch naught, 
hut to recover what is my own. Somewhere — 
here o' Somerset House, amongst you — you have 
it in hiding ” 

The guard who had been stunned now recov- 
ered his senses, and with much groaning rolled 
toward his fellows. 

Burghley, spurning him with his foot and fol- 
i88 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


lowed by the French Count, drew closer to the 
wounded man and looked down curiously, for 
there was a reckless dare-deviltry about him 
which commanded passing attention. 

De Simier gave a short exclamation in his own 
tongue. 

**Mon DieuT he said, ‘‘but he is magnificent! 
Where make you such men in England? He 
hath a body and face like the Greek gods.” 

Lord Burghley leaned down to the prostrate 
figure. 

‘What seek you in the Queen’s palace? None 
come here unbidden, my friend. Yet, what would 
you, and by what name are you known ?” 

The man threw back his head with a gesture 
of indifference. He pressed one hand hard on 
the hilt of the knife, and a shudder ran through 
his great limbs. 

“It matters not who I be,” he said, halting 
between the words. “Naught matters. I have 
come to the end. Still, they know me as Daven- 
port o’ the Bridge, and I seek here my daughter. 
She is a wilful little wench an’ hath outwitted 
me. Aye, defied me, an’ played me one better; 
I, who am an old hand. But, Gad!” with a quick 
189 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


smile, ‘‘I seem not now to mind. My fury is 
spent. She hath my spirit, the jade!” 

He closed his eyes, and his head fell back. 

“ Tis the end,” said De Simier, ‘‘and — the 
Queen awaits you, my Lord.” 

“I serve Her Majesty best here,” Burghley 
answered shortly. “He is not gone, nor will 
be, till he draws the blade.” 

Then he spoke to Davenport again. 

“Look you, my man,” he said gravely, “I hold 
you of honest purpose and robbed of life by a 
drunken guard, though ’twas without right you 
so adventured here. Still, what would you? We 
know naught of your daughter; but you have 
scant time, and mayhap desire the office of the 
Church.” 

A little smiile passed over the whitened mouth. 

“My sins be past counting,” he said faintly, 
“and, moreover, I love not the Princes of the 
Church of England. If so be there is a barefoot 
friar about, bring him hither.” 

Burghley shook his head. 

“I fear there is naught then we can do.” 

The man answered nothing and his breath 
came short and quick. 

1 90 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


The sound of dance-music drifted to them with 
its measured rise and fall. 

Presently Davenport looked up. 

‘'My Lord,” he said, ‘T bethink me I would 
see the Queen.” 

“Nay,” replied Lord Burghley, “that is im- 
possible, I fear. We disturb not Her Majesty 
lightly.” 

“No man’s death is a little matter,” he re- 
turned haltingly. “I would see the Queen. 
Marry, her subjects have some rights, an’ ’tis 
of import.” 

The statesman turned to De Simier. 

“Stay you here,” he said; “I will to Her 
Majesty. Her whim might be to come hither, 
though pne would spare her the scene. When 
’tis of the people, she is vastly persistent in know- 
ing all, and on second thought I deem it unwise 
to deny the man’s request. Meseemeth there is 
more here than shows on the surface.” 

He strode through the halls, and the French 
Envoy waited. 

Davenport neither moved nor spoke, but the 
red patch on his buff jerkin slowly widened and 
his face grew like marble. 

191 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


The dance-music went on ceaselessly, and the 
cool air and mist of the river crept in as far as 
it might. After a space there was the quick 
rustle of silk and lace across the marble floor, 
and Lord Burghley and the Queen herself drew 
near. With them came a surgeon of the 
Court. 

“Here lies the man. Your Grace,” said Burgh- 
ley. “It may be wise that he should first have 
his wound examined.” 

Davenport raised on his arm and looked up. 

The Queen stood in all her radiance beside 
him as she had upon the day when death ha,d 
once before claimed him. 

He fixed his great eyes that with the evil in 
their depths held also a certain appealing melan- 
choly, on the grave and earnest face turned down 
to his. 

“Good Your Grace,” he said, between his 
short breaths, “bring me no leech, I beseech thee ; 
I will the sooner make an ending without his 
office. Methinks an’ you had let me swing o’ 
Tyburn, ’twould ha’ been trouble saved. Yet, 
I thank you. I ha’ tasted life’s joyance many 
times since.” 


192 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Then he stopped. 

‘‘Speak on,” she answered gently. “What can 
we for thy comfort?” 

“ Tis for my daughter I would trouble Your 
Grace,” he said. “One saw her enter Somerset 
Palace at set o’ sun — a lying, weasel-faced water- 
man, yet who spoke truth i' that. I would ha’ 
wed the wench to Gillian o’ the Gardens, though, 
good Lord ! ’twould ha’ been beauty wasted. 
But she fled, an’ to thee, as I think. She hath 
a rare spirit an’ one unacquainted wi’ fear. I 
came straightway here. Your Majesty, for a man 
hath a right to recover his own; yet the game 
is ended an’ my anger spent. One cannot bluff 
Fate.” 

The Queen looked down in a strange, grave 
way. 

“What comes to us for protection, we give not 
up, Richard Davenport,” she answered. “But 
we would ask thee in this thy passing hour. Who 
art thou — thou evil, dangerous man, who hath 
these two times brought us to pity thee?” 

He gave a mocking laugh through his stif- 
fened lips. 

“I be a gentleman. Your Majesty,” he said, 

193 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“who hath no right to the name, being born with- 
out sanction o’ law or church. It may be thou 
canst call to mind that friend o’ King Henry’s 
named Lord Richard Caverden?” 

The Queen gave a little start, and Lord Burgh- 
ley swore beneath his breath. 

“We remember him,” she answered. 

“ ’Twould, peradventure, be harder to shake 
him from thy memory,” returned the dying man. 
“He was not of a kind to be easily banished. 
The King’s boon companion ; his comrade o’ 
revels. Marry, I be his son, though born out 
o’ wedlock. My mother was the daughter o’ 
the keeper o’ Caverden forest on the northern 
border, where the merry parties o’ gentlemen 
went i’ the fall o’ the year to follow the stag. 
She was a wench o’ sixteen when my father 
found her out, an’ had too much beauty for her 
own good. Well, the sin be past, an’ God rest 
her soul. She atoned, for she died at my birth- 
ing. I grew to fifteen years i’ Caverden forest 
wi’ my grandfather, the keeper, an’ was made 
free o’ the castle, an’ vastly spoiled by the gen- 
tlemen who came i’ the autumn; most of all, 
mayhap, by my father. Aye, I knew the King! 

194 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


For strength and spirit there was no man like 
him in England.” 

Davenport fell back, the beads of dew on his 
face, and he pressed the knife-hilt closer. 

‘‘Of your charity,” he said, “doth Your Grace 
believe this story true?” 

“That do we,” answered Elizabeth, her face 
darkening. “Thou art the facsimile of that light- 
living gentleman. Lord Richard Caverden, whom 
the King was pleased to honour. He was a 
noble who burdened himself with few cares and 
died unwed.” 

The surgeon and De Simier stood a short dis- 
tance off. The guard still huddled together in 
abject wretchedness, awaiting the descent of 
justice, and Lord Burghley was by the Queen’s 
side. 

“Your Majesty,” he said, “there is no repudi- 
ating such a likeness. It has puzzled me mightily 
once before, but now is plain reading.” 

Davenport raised his eyes. 

“I crave word o’ Joyce,” he said. 

“Set thy heart at rest,” returned the Queen 
gently. “She is in our care. Think thou on 
thy sins, and repent thee.” 

195 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


He threw back his head in the old defiant way, 
and for the moment his glazing eyes glittered. 

“A man dies as he has lived, Your Grace,” he 
said. ‘‘ ’Tis easier for the body — than I thought. 
S’death! I would, though, I had na’ been so 
harsh with the maid. She hath my spirit, an' is 
all — I can call my own, i’ the world.” 

The Queen’s face was very white, and some 
thought seemed troubling her, some mind-strug- 
gle, as she watched the life before her going out. 

The splash of red on his buff jerkin grew into 
a great circle, and slow drops fell upon the 
marble. 

The tissue of the Queen’s robe touched the 
crimson, and a little stain crept slowly upon it. 

She did not notice, but drew her brows to- 
gether in sombre thought. 

Suddenly, with an impulsive movement pecu- 
liarly her own, she turned to the statesman. 

“ ’Tis such another case,” she said bitterly, 
with quivering lips and in a low voice, “as that 
of Henry Fitzroy, the King’s bastard son by 
Lady Talbot. Yet, remember you not, Cecil, 
the titles my father heaped upon him, making 
him Knight of the Garter, Earl of Nottingham, 
196 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Duke of Richmond, an’ — as if ’twere not enough 
— Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland! It maddens me 
to think of it — yet, here is one, the son of the 
King’s friend, as worthy of consideration, still 
left to his own upbringing. It savours little of 
justice, and I wonder nothing he fell into evil. 
By the Rood! an’ I be but a woman, I shall set 
things right, though it be the eleventh hour. 
Methinks ’tis worth something at times to wear 
the crown.” 

‘"What would Your Majesty?” asked Burgh- 
ley anxiously, knowing her moods and high im- 
petuosity. “Evil is evil. What can Your Grace 
toward righting a sin so long ago committed?” 

“Of that sin,” she cried softly, “hath sprung 
as fair a thing as any our eyes have seen. Aye, 
that maid who came hither this afternoon. She 
is as a flower sprung from the blackest mire, 
Burghley. Ne’er saw I a pure soul if one shone 
not from her face. For some reason beyond 
my fathoming, she hath touched my heart. I, 
the Queen, who am not easily moved to love. 
^Tis this child I would set right with the world.'* 

Then with an imperial gesture she glanced up. 

“Lend me your sword, my Lord,” she said. 

197 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘‘Of Your Grace,” he answered, “I pray Your 
Majesty to do nothing you will regret.” 

Elizabeth lifted her brows. 

“Nay, Burghley! I made thee not the keeper 
of my conscience!” she answered. “Lend me 
thy sword.” 

He drew it from its scabbard and, dropping 
to one knee, handed it to the Queen, while the 
light flashed along the blade and jewelled hilt. 

“Bid the surgeon come to us,” she said. 

The black-robed man came, soft of foot and 
without words. 

“Give us assurance, good sir, that this man 
before us will surely die of his wound,” Eliza- 
beth said, turning to him. 

The surgeon knelt by Davenport as he lay back 
with closed eyes, and listened at his heart. 

“He will not live a moment after the knife 
is withdrawn. Your Majesty.” 

“ ’Tis well !” she returned. “Stand thou there 
— my Lord Count, pray bear witness, and you, 
my Lord Burghley.” 

Then she took the jewelled sword and touched 
Richard Davenport lightly on the shoulder. 

“Richard Davenport Caverden,” she said in 
198 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


the cold, steady voice she used at such ceremonies, 
‘‘I dub thee our loyal knight. Lord of Caverden 
and the lands that belong thereto.” 

Then, with a smile, handed the sword back. 

“ ’Tis done!” she said briefly. 

It may be the dying man understood, but as 
to that they never knew. 

De Simier had looked on with his unreadable 
face, Burghley with some distress, and the sur- 
geon as one dazed. 

Before the little group had time to move away, 
Davenport half raised himself again. There was 
a light in his eyes, wild and unreasoning, and 
he looked far out beyond the hall of Somerset 
House, but his lips smiled gayly till they saw 
the glittering line of strong white teeth. 

“By the Mass!” he said, “but the wench hath 
my spirit! Now, on the last bit o’ my honour, 
’tis a thing I hate to do — Gillian o’ the bear- 
garden, or Ferrier — ’tis — casting a pearl before 
swine ” 

Then his tone changed. 

“Didst never hear the story o’ the Queen’s 
grace, sweetheart? Beshrew me if there be not 
enow wagging tongues to tell thee o’ it! Right 
199 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


well did my face serve me, an’ thine is more 
beautiful. It shall bring thee gold an’ high for- 
tune, an’ all those things a man sells his soul 
for. Aye, who knows, lass! — perchance a title 
to thy name.” 

He waited, but went on in different key. 

*‘To Somerset House? Nay, thou weasel-face, 
she would not dare — an’ yet, mayhap, she would — 
Lord! an’ thou dost not speak truth, thou loose- 
mouthed knave. I’ll throttle thee ’fore morn- 
ing — So — So — Comes the King riding this 
road? Aye, down the green ways o’ Caverden 
forest. The sun is on his red-gold hair, but 
Queen Catherine — God save her — pines i’ Kim- 
bolton Castle. Off wi’ the old love — on wi’ the 
new. Gad, ’tis King Harry himself! Hark! 
there echoes the song he always sings when he 
is light o’ heart!” 

Those gathered around listened with bated 
breath as the high, sweet tenor suddenly broke 
through the stillness. 

Davenport’s voice rang for the moment full 
and rich as of old, and it was in truth the King’s 
own beloved song they heard. “Pastance with 
good company” he sang: 


200 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


I love and shall until I die, 

Grudge who will, but none deny, 

So God be pleased, this life will I 
For my pastance. 

Hunt — sing — and dance. 

My heart is set — 

All goodly sport. 

To my comfort 
Who shall me not let. 

As he finished, with a quick movement he 
drew the knife from his side and a flood of red 
followed. The Queen turned with a little shud- 
der, and Lord Burghley led her away. 




201 




THE NEW MAID OF HONOUR 





CHAPTER IX 


N O sound of music and dancing, no rumour 
of the disturbance of the night and con- 
sequent death of her father, reached Joyce Dav- 
enport in the silken-hung apartment adjoining 
the suite of rooms occupied by Lady Stafford, 
Mistress of the Robes. According to the Queen’s 
direction. Lady Stafford had taken her there, and, 
though filled with wonder and brimming with 
curiosity, was tactful enough to ask no question 
of one so tired and bewildered. No lady of the 
Court saw more and said less than the Mistress 
of the Robes, and her face was one that a child 
would trust at sight. She treated the girl with 
all kindliness, and directed one of her own maids 
to stay with her till morning. 

Joyce rested, as they bid her, on the couch, 
and closed her eyes, though she was as one in 
a dream and felt that at last she was being swept 
onward blindly, apart from her own volition, 
205 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


and by some force she could neither understand 
nor resist. Event had followed event so quickly, 
and she had slept and eaten so little, that now 
she sank down in utter inactivity, and thought 
ceased to trouble her. The question of what was 
right and what wrong took wings. The fear of 
her father’s anger, of the desperate certainty of 
his following, seeking, mayhap finding, and 
taking her back to do his will, drifted away. 
Even Silas and his old sorrowful, weatherbeaten 
face no longer haunted her and made her heart 
ache. No sickening horror of Gillian of the 
Gardens set her trembling, and she forgot the 
slow agony of the trip up the river, when the 
ferry-man with the rose in his ear cast smiling, 
sidelong glances at her from bold, admiring eyes, 
and the sly-faced water-man plied her with ques- 
tions and watched her with suspicion, evil curios- 
ity, and inquisitiveness, till their dull fellow-pas- 
sengers started to wonder and whisper among 
themselves. The loathsome, noisy river-streets, 
the swarming, pitiful children and quarrelling 
women, went from her memory, and the men 
who stared and smiled as she passed them on 
the Strand. 


206 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


All the crowded, troublesome, bitter hours 
since the old serving-man had called her to the 
window and told his story of the juggler of 
bridge-end, were for a while as though they had 
not been. 

The cheers from the tilting-yard that first re- 
vived her courage, the old yeoman of the guard 
and the little blue-and-silver page, seemed made 
of a tissue of fancy; the palace scented with 
roses and lit by its thousands of candles, the 
merry groups of ladies in the halls, the beautiful 
room like sunlight on a field of grain, and the 
gracious, wonderful figure of the Queen, her 
gentlemen-in-waiting beside her, were as a dream 
within a dream. The little rough dog that crept 
against the couch and thrust his head into her 
hand for a caress, alone brought her a sense 
of reality. 

Lady Stafford’s maid sat primly upright far 
off across the room and watched the girl, think- 
ing she slept. She wondered at her, too — at the 
thick, wavy light hair, the like of which she had 
never seen, and the dark, silky lashes lying in 
a half-moon on her cheeks, at her small hands 
and the scarlet bow of her mouth. 

207 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


But Joyce did not sleep. She heard the bells 
tell the hours, while behind her closed eyes there 
was one vision. She saw a man’s tall figure 
clothed in brown leather, flecked here and there 
with _gold tassels, and with a dagger dangling 
in its blue jewelled case at his belt. Sometimes 
he was tossing the ivory balls or double-edged 
knives high into the air, his head thrown back 
and a confident smile on his lips. Again, he 
was leaning against the latticed window-frame 
with indolent grace and looking down into her 
eyes with eyes that spoke of love. She saw 
only that one face. She would always see that 
one face, and the rest of the world would be 
as nothing. The joy of life was gone with him 
where he was gone. She had known it for a 
little while, and would never, never know it 
again. So she said to herself while the night 
went by. 

High noon was just past when the Queen sent 
once more for Joyce. 

She went with Lady Stafford through the 
palace to the royal apartments, and they entered 
what was called “the coffee-room,” one often 
used in the mornings by Her Majesty during 
208 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


her flying visits to Somerset House. It faced 
the rose-garden, and the Queen was seated with 
three of her maids of honour by the beautiful 
emblazoned window. These ladies she dismissed, 
and then turned toward Lady Stafford and Joyce, 
who courtesied deeply, while her heart suddenly 
started to beat as it had never beaten before, 
and a sense of her own wild daring, coupled with 
a timidity hitherto unknown, took all strength 
from her limbs. 

She was no longer as one in a dream, but rec- 
ognised the reality of the scene. This was the 
great Queen of England, hedged about by all 
the power of state; whom men fought for and 
died for, thinking themselves repaid by her 
smile; whose fleets swept the seas, and whose 
armies were triumphant. She had but to sign 
her name and it meant life or death or banish- 
ment or liberty, and yet now she beckoned Joyce 
Davenport to her side. 

The girl went forward, all colour slowly fad- 
ing from her face. By an effort she summoned 
her courage, lest she give some other sign of 
faltering or fear. 


209 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


The Queen held out her hand, drew her closer, 
and kissed her on the cheek. 

‘‘Didst weep through the night-hours that thou 
art so pale this morning?” she said gently. 

“Nay, I thank Your Grace,” Joyce replied, “I 
wept not, yet my thoughts kept sleep away.” 

“Marry! thou art too young to have such 
thoughts, though, well-a-day, they come to all. 
We would we could be sure of thy bravery ; there 
is somewhat to tell thee that may be hard to 
bear.” 

A little shiver ran over the girl, and her eyes 
grew wide, still she looked up steadily. 

“I doubt I ha’ been over-bold in bringing my 
troubles to Your Majesty, but indeed I know 
not what new one there be.” 

Elizabeth paused for a moment and turned 
the Egyptian thumb-ring slowly about. In 
through the open window drifted the spicy per- 
fume of some late-blowing roses, and from the 
top of one of the clipped yew-trees a bird broke 
into rollicking song for simple gladness that the 
fog had rolled away and the sun was shining 
on the world again. 


210 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Then the Queen spoke again slowly and with 
a certain softness in her voice that Lady Stafford, 
well as she knew its every inflection, was un- 
acquainted with. 

Bending toward Joyce, she took her hand 
again. 

“Yesternight,” she said, “while the fog was 
thick on the river, thy father sought thee here. 
He forced his way past the guard at the water- 
stair and came onward into the palace, rashly 
and recklessly, yet as one who had no fear. 
There could be but one ending. In the entrance- 
hall, whither the guard followed, he was struck 
his death-blow.” 

Joyce caught her breath, but uttered no word, 
and the Queen went on : 

“With that bold spirit, which I fancy he hath 
given to thee, he asked that he might see the 
Queen. One of our gentlemen brought word of 
this to us. Well, death is no little thing, who- 
soe’er it comes to, nor is a death request to be 
lightly disregarded by any. Therefore, we went 
to this desperate, adventurous man who once 
before had by reason of his evil ways crossed 


2II 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


our path. Perchance we were not without curi- 
osity to see how such a one might die, whether 
with bravado as he had lived, or with repent- 
ance, or in a terror of what might follow. But 
— ^now heed thee well and lose no word by be- 
wilderment — in those few moments while thy 
father was dying and we stood with Lord Burgh- 
ley by his side, we learned as by a thing revealed 
who he truly was. There are facts long hidden 
which, when they come to light, have truth 
stamped upon them so plainly that all the world 
may read. He who has been known as Daven- 
port of the Bridge was in reality the son — the 
only son, so far as it hath come to our knowl- 
edge — of one Lord Richard Caverden, for many 
years the beloved friend of our father, the King ; 
though by legal opinion and the laws that be, 
Davenport had no right to be called his son, no 
slightest established claim upon him. But, be- 
cause of thee, who art blameless in the midst 
of so much sin, we, according to our judgment, 
set straight this long-crooked matter, and he 
who entered Somerset House as Richard Daven- 
port, toll-taker of London Bridge, died Lord 


212 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Richard Caverden, and lies now in the death- 
chamber of the palace, though to-morrow he 
will be taken to the North and buried in the 
tomb where his father rests — in Caverden 
forest. 

“We will take thee into our care and thou 
wilt forget thy old name and be known only 
as the Lady Joyce Caverden. Furthermore, the 
lands of thy grandfather, which at his death 
without heirs reverted to the Crown, are now 
thine.” 

The clear, slow voice stopped and the girl 
raised one hand and brushed it across her eyes. 
Twice she tried to speak, but no word came. 

“I pray Your Grace,” she said at last faltering- 
**to grant me one more kindness. There is 
at the toll-house at north tower an old man. Oh, 
he is very old, and sorely grieved and troubled 
because of my flight! Neither doth he know the 
cause of it, an’ so is the more bewildered and 
fearful lest harm come to me. I would beseech 
thee to send word to him of my father” — a sob 
caught her breath and broke the words — “of my 
father,” she went on, “and of me also, that he 
may know I be safe; and I would some other 
213 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


might take his watch. He will be fore-wearied 
by now and needeth rest.” 

The Queen gave a little laugh that died sud- 
denly. 

“By my faith!” she cried, turning to Lady 
Stafford. “Here is one who can afford to dis- 
regard our favour, and treat it with indifference. 
At the moment of hearing she hath come to an 
estate worth some consideration, and a title per- 
chance worth more, she doth fly in thought 
straightway to an old sailor, and is more bur- 
dened by his unhappiness than uplifted by her 
own rare good fortune. Truly, we have not 
found many 5uch.” 

Then looking at Joyce: 

“Dost grieve for thy father, little one?” she 
said. 

The girl’s eyes filled with slow tears. 

“Aye, Your Majesty,” she answered softly, 
“that do 1. Mayhap I did wrong to leave him, 
an’ should have done his bidding.” 

“Think not so,” the Queen answered. “Thou 
didst do right.” 

Then she rang a bell that stood on a table by 
her side, and a page entered the room. 


214 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“Hath Ettrick returned?” she questioned. 

“He hath, Your Grace, and awaits your 
pleasure.” 

“Bid him hither.” 

A stalwart yeoman of the guard entered and 
saluted. 

“Hast brought word from London Bridge, 
Ettrick? We would know who watches the 
gates at north tower?” 

“They be not watched, Your Majesty,” the 
man replied. “The riders pass back and forth 
freely without tendering toll.” 

“And is there no one about the toll-house?” 
asked the Queen, lifting her brow. “We thought 
there was an old sailor on duty.” 

“Truly, there was an old sailor,” replied the 
yeoman. “They found him bolt upright on his 
chair in the shadow of the tower at daybreak, 
so the gossips told me, an’ he was stone-dead 
an’ stiff as though the breath had left him 
some hours; but whether he died through vio- 
lence — though he looked it not — or by the visita- 
tion of God, none knew.” 

Joyce Davenport listened to the man, her 

215 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


frightened eyes fastened on his impassive face; 
then she grew blind to all around, and with a 
little, inarticulate cry wavered and fell at the 
Queen's feet. 


216 


HER MAJESTY REMEMBERS LORD 
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CHAPTER X 


A way in Scotland, that rugged country so 
torn by civil wars, embittered by political 
strife, and vexed by religious quarrels and ques- 
tions, in the great hall of a lonely castle far to 
the north, two men were talking together by an 
open fire on Christmas eve. 

It was an ancient house this, and had at one 
time belonged to the Crown and been regarded 
as a fortress. Behind it was the solid rampart 
of the hills, and before was the sea. Dense for- 
ests stretched away to the west, and to the east 
were the wild moorlands. Few roads led to it, 
and yet, report said. Queen Margaret and the 
baby king, with their small court, had found 
their way hither in the troublesome days follow- 
ing the death of King James on the field of 
Flodden. 

Be that as it may, by the changes and chances 
of life the place had passed into the hands of a 
private gentleman, who had been willing to en- 
219 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


rich the impoverished royal purse heavily for 
the privilege of owning the seldom-used but 
historic castle. At the death of this private gen- 
tleman, one Frazer of Dundee — a dour, unmar- 
ried man, over-strange in many ways, but one 
who had revenues of wealth and knew how to 
make and keep money as well as spend it — the 
estate was left with the balance of his possessions, 
both gold on land and merchantmen at sea, to 
his heirs. 

These heirs were of his own choosing and 
appointing. The first named was a young girl, 
his niece and ward, and the second was Lord 
Henry Yelverton. There were, unfortunately, 
certain conditions entailed upon them before the 
wealth of Frazer became theirs — arbitrary, un- 
pleasant conditions, that hedged about his be- 
longings, and were of a keeping with the man 
who made them. If he had desired to render his 
memory hated instead of loved by the recipients 
of his bounty, he could not have taken a straight- 
er course to that end. However, these conditions, 
being of a simple yet unyielding nature, impos- 
sible to be overcome by wit or strategy, had been 
carried out to the letter, if not in the spirit. The 


220 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


law, therefore, professed itself satisfied, which 
is saying much, for the law has many eyes and 
uses them with a fine zeal to discover loop-holes, 
discrepancies, or flaws in the deeds and docu- 
ments of a dead man. 

The red, wintry sun shone through the em- 
blazoned window of the hall where the two men 
were talking, and flecked the dark wood floor 
with brilliant colours from the painted panes. 
The hall was hung here and there with storied 
tapestry, and it was ceiled with cedar. The doors 
and wainscotting were curiously carven, while 
in the stone-work of the chimney-place was cut 
deeply the Scottish coat-of-arms. Here and there 
on the walls hung pieces of armour long since 
passed out of use; sinister things not good for 
a woman to look upon; heavy, deadly things, 
bearing testimony to the strength of the men 
who had borne them, and speaking by many a 
dent or ragged tear of the service they had seen. 
And there were trophies of the chase as well, 
made fast to the black oak panelling that alter- 
nated with the tapestry ; huge antlered heads and 
the heads of boars with mighty curving tusks, 
and the masks and brushes of foxes. 


221 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


There was no trace of any woman about the 
hall, no flowers, no bit of pretty work, no vir- 
ginal, or tambour frame, or little embroidered 
footstool ; but instead, on a table, there were pipes 
of many fashions made by the red Indians of the 
new western country, and beside them there were 
gauntleted riding-gloves, and a man’s deep- 
brimmed hat circled by a leather band caught up 
with a jewelled buckle. And there were whips 
hanging in a rack, and a hunter’s horn. A stag- 
hound lay at length on the hearth and stretched 
himself happily in the heat of the fire. 

‘‘The little lads will be home for Christmas, 
master,” said the elder man, stooping to push 
back a burning log and sending showers of golden 
sparks into the yawning black mouth of the 
chimney. 

“Aye,” answered the other, a tall and hand- 
some man whose hair was sable-silvered. “Aye, 
the little lads will be home, Michael. Belike 
their mother counteth greatly on it. Well, they 
are clean-limbed, straight-featured children, and 
of keen wit — though that latter must perforce 
have been bequeathed them by the bailiff. 
Heaven knows their mother assuredly hath it 


222 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


not to spare. Nay,” he continued, smiling and 
turning his broad back to the fire, ‘‘look not so 
at me, good Michael. I mince not words with 
thee, though to others I am close-mouthed 
enough. Whatever the father they were begotten 
of, or the mother who bore them — egad! I give 
you my faith on’t, the little lads are all they 
should be, and are enough to gladden any 
woman’s eyes.” 

The old man stooped lower over the fire, and 
his hands trembled. Presently he spoke again 
in gentle, half-hesitating fashion, and with a 
strange wistfulness in the faded eyes that nerv- 
ously sought the other’s face. 

“Thou art a happy man, my Lord, art thou 
not, with all this of life’s comfort ?” 

The one he spoke to gave a short laugh that 
broke and died away. 

“Happy, good Michael ? Is any man so, think 
you ?” he answered after a moment. “Happiness 
is a thing that vanishes as we grasp it. It is 
the will-o’-the-wisp that ever leads us on, an’ 
many a quagmire and quicksand wait for the 
feet that follow it. Happiness is that that comes 
to us in dreams, and leaves us when we waken. 

223 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

’Tis the hour we look hack to, or forward to, 
but never, God wots, the hour that strikes. Per- 
chance when a man longs madly and with but the 
one desire in his soul for a thing, he is as near 
to happiness as he can get i’ this world. We 
dream of a paradise, but meseemeth we never 
enter. The portcullis is always dropped ere we 
reach it. Still, why should I not be happy, as 
you, old one, take meaning of the word, for 
maybe we understand it not alike? What have 
I missed of the best? I am staid and marvellous 
healthy, sober-minded, and of a steady prosper- 
ity. I have no debts to keep me awake o’ nights 
and distract my creditors by day. I have more 
gold than I need; town-houses that I hate, an’ 
country-plzces that I love. Marry! I can shoot 
and fish, kill the wild things Heaven hath made,, 
and so it comes, enjoy myself to the full. Truly, 
the gods seem to love me, although I die not 
young. But fancies strange and odd and out- 
side of aught we do in the common days that 
follow each other monotonously, come to the best 
and worst of us at times. Once in my life — 
just once — good Michael, it seemed that fleeting, 
evanescent thing called happiness became real, 
224 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


and was for a little space fairly within my grasp. 
Well-a-day ! ’twas long ago, and whether by mis- 
fortune or by fault it slipped from me, which 
goes to prove the truth of what I told thee. The 
lightness o’ heart, the joy o’ life, of which a man 
is capable — nay, he reaches it not this side Heav- 
en; and so he takes what lies nearest his hand — 
some substitute for that he would have, and makes 
believe to be content. Hearken, I will tell thee 
somewhat. 

“Last night, when I reached home, I slept 
heavily, for in the storm I had twice lost my 
way on the moors, and had ridden about in a 
circle that covered many miles ere I got the 
right road. Gad! I earned my sleep and the 
dream that came with it. It went in this wise : 
One came to me shining as the sun and beautiful 
of face — an angel perchance, though there be 
others better able to judge of that than 1. On 
his head there glittered a circlet of stars, and the 
great wings that bore him were of dappled silver. 
This shining one spoke in marvellous sweet man- 
ner and said : ‘Don thou thy brown leathern suit, 
Yelverton, and go out into the world upon a 
225 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


quest. Look through the East, and through the 
West, through the white North and the far South, 
for a Uower, Somewhere it groweth, for thee 
only to pluck. None other may have it. White 
it is and pure, and when thou seest it the whole 
earth will hold naught else for thee. In the 
golden heart of it lieth a potent of love that 
only thou mayst find.’ 

*‘So he spoke, and so I went, good Michael, 
and long I searched. But not in the east nor 
the west, nor the north or south, was the flower 
that lured me on. And then, when I had all 
but grown weary of my quest, I found it blow- 
ing upon the old bridge in London town. Of 
the sweetness of it I cannot tell thee, but as I 
would have taken it, there came a wind, strong 
and terrible, that broke the fragile stem and 
drifted the flower away across the river, and 
so out to sea.” 

The man stopped speaking and laughed again, 
as at his own fancy, a short laugh, half-bitter, 
half-sweet. Then he touched the old servant on 
the shoulder, as he bent over the fire, his head 
far down, his locks shading the worn face. 

226 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘There be happenings in life not easy to ban- 
ish from mind,” Yelverton said musingly, “un- 
forgettable things, and, strangely enough, oft 
brought about by trifles or the commonest chance. 
Such a one, mayhap, will change the whole com- 
plexion of the world ; either light it with a golden 
glow or unhappily bleach the colours from it 
and leave what was a place of rainbow hues, a 
gray waste. Aye, more; these tricks of Fate 
at times sear the very soul of a man.” 

He stood for a moment looking absently into 
the heart of the fire, then threw off the train of 
thought by an effort and shrugged his shoulders 
lightly. 

“Enough of sad reflections!” he said. “This 
was but a dream, old one — but a dream. I should 
not trouble thee by prating of a fancy o’ the 
night that had no better ending.” 

Old Michael did not answer. A trembling ran 
through his limbs, and his body seemed to shrink. 
Twice he opened his lips to speak, but no sound 
came. He was as one who battled to gain mas- 
tery of himself; then on a sudden he lifted his 
drawn face and his voice came. 


227 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“Nay, not so, master!” he cried with tremu- 
lous eagerness, “ ’twas no common dream. ^Twas 
a vision — and retold that long-past story of the 
maid o’ London Bridge. Does it then still haunt 
thee, and dost still remember after all these 
years? Marry! I had not thought so! In very 
truth, I had not thought so.” 

Yelverton laid one hand on the quivering 
shoulder. 

“Go to! Go to!” he said gently. “There is 
naught to vex thee so in my remembering. For 
all that happ’d then, thou hast no shred of blame 
to give thyself. You would have spared me what 
I suffered an’ it had been possible, I know right 
well, old friend. Look you, then. There is an 
ancient story in the Persian — which some of a 
certain faith believe — that God gives to each but 
half a soul, and that somewhere in His universe 
sojourns its mate. We are imperfect things 
enough. Heaven knows; there may be truth in 
the tale. If so, by my faith! I believe I once 
came across the other part of this vagrant, un- 
happy soul o’ mine. It lived in that little maid 

► 

we both remember, Michael, and was of such a 
228 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


rare perfection methinks it could have taken mine 
— sin-blackened as it was — to Paradise with it, 
an’ I, too, had died. 

‘Truly I have not forgotten those short weeks 
and all that came in them. Mind you how I 
juggled day after day at bridge-foot? How 
scanty were the pence; how few and desperately 
far between the silver bits that rattled into the 
chapeau. How the people would gather and gape 
with wide eyes and mouths while I tossed the 
knives — half afraid, for that report had it I was 
akin to the Prince of Darkness himself! Little 
by little we made the sum we needed, and with 
it helped tide over a few dull hours for the poor 
river-folk. 

“Egad! I know not that any days o’ my life 
passed more merrily. While at night — at night, 
Michael, I walked straightway into heaven ! 
’Twas not beyond the stars — as most men think 
— but no farther away than the old toll-house 
at north tower o’ London Bridge. 

“Heigh-ho! Noel-tide carries us back over 
the way we have come. Yet, think not that I 
quarrel with Fate. These days suit my temper, 
229 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


spent as they are out-o’-doors in this chill, misty 
country. One grows like it — a very part of it — 
as time slips by. Being a man, and made withal 
of a tough fibre that hath not yet quite lost its 
spring, I take joy out of mere living, as much 
as most. But ’tis mere living. To work — to eat 
— to sleep; sometimes to dream — and so over 
again. Oh, aye! Yes, old one, from your face 
I know what you would say — ^your wife.' Say 
it not then, I pray thee. Our marriage, as you 
know mightily well, was a marriage of conven- 
ience — no more, no less. A straight means to a 
much-desired end. A devilish necessity. Well, 
when a man hath no love to offer a woman, in 
such case it matters little to him whether she be 
Juno herself or a sun-blackened Moorish wench. 
And for the other side, the lady in question would 
have wed me — under the circumstances — had I 
been cursed with the evil heart and crooked back 
of the villainous Richard himself. 

‘T may tell thee now, that to guard against 
all misunderstanding we made certain agree- 
ments. Simple agreements and easy to abide by, 
as was reasonable in good sooth, considering all 
230 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


things. Through the years we have kept to them 
and lived as best we could. Any other way, in 
spite of thy kindly hopes, would have destroyed 
peace, the one thing left us, and peradventure 
brought misery or madness to one or other. At 
least I leave such experiment to men of different 
mettle.” 

A silence fell between the two again. The red 
light died away in the west and turned to gray. 
In the hall there was no sound but the crackling 
of the fire and the restless movements of the 
stag-hound on the hearth. 

Old Michael turned at last as though making 
up his mind to speak again and of some doubtful 
subject. 

‘T would ask thee, my Lord,” he said, ‘‘seeing 
it has pleased you to speak to-night of that long- 
gone time, whether — whether ’twas ever known 
for a very certainty — ever proven, that — ^that — 
little maid of the toll-taker’s came, past doubting, 
to her death?” 

“Aye,” Lord Yelverton answered softly, his 
eyes on the fire, “past all shadow of doubting, 
good Michael. The old bell-ringer told me. 

231 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

And he saw. A young ferry-man also, who had 
truth in his face, was eye-witness of it. Yet 
never have I known or been able to fathom what 
reason — what desperate reason — could have 
driven her to it. Perchance she distrusted my 
good faith — though I know not why. ’Twas all 
a very coil, a mystery I would give my life to 
solve. The disappearance of Davenport that 
next night in the fog and mist but adds to the 
riddle. No word or sign of him was ever dis- 
covered; no tidings from any quarter of whither 
he went, and to add to that, on the morning 
following, the old sailor who kept the gate in 
his absence was found dead, sitting upright at 
his post. There was no mark of violence upon 
him, yet his face wore a look of horror. The 
breath had been out of him for hours, for he 
was stiff as though frozen. Oh! I saw him, for 
I haunted the bridge three days and three nights 
waiting for — I knew not what. Mayhap just 
that they might bring me word the white body 
of a girl had drifted to the Thames bank some- 
where, or been found in the weeds of the marshes. 
I have never spoken of it during all these years, 
232 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


and marvel I do so now, hut you knew, old one, 
for you followed and kept me in sight through 
those hoursj and in a measure understood/' 

He paused for a moment, then went on swiftly. 

“Aye, 'twas the devil’s riddle. Yet what is a 
mystery to me, must be clear to some living soul. 
Someone there is who knows why she took her 
life. So I ever believed.” 

The old lined face turned half away from him, 
and in the fading light the features seemed to 
grow sharper. 

“If thou didst ever discover such a one, my 
Lord,” said the voice, halting between the words, 
“if any had poisoned her mind, or told her aught 
to turn her from thee and it came to thy knowl- 
edge, what wouldst thou with such a one, 
master ?” 

Velvety gray shadows slipped in now through 
the painted windows and across the polished 
floor. Out-of-doors a blue-white, ghost-like mist 
came crawling slowly in from sea, a formless, 
deadly thing that covered living creatures before 
their time as with a shroud, and settled like a 
winding-sheet about the purple hills. 

233 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Where the two men talked, the place was very 
quiet. With a muffled sound the cinders dropped 
in the ashes and the big logs broke and fell into 
a bed of red coals. 

“It is ten years ago and past, is it not, good 
Michael?” Yelverton answered at last in a low 
voice. The words came in a slow, passionless 
way, yet they burned into the soul of the old 
man who listened. A tone in them chilled his 
blood. The peaked face stared through the 
growing dusk. 

“Ten years,” the steady voice went on, “ten 
years of green springs and summers, of drench- 
ing autumn-rains that swept the moors, and of 
unkindly winters. A long enough time surely 
to breed forgiveness for any wrong. Vastly 
enough time, as the world counts it, to have 
forgotten ten times over. Yet, if I came on 
such a one as you mention, Michael, I would 
kill him!” 

The frail figure opposite swayed, then, putting 
out one hand, steadied itself against the mantel. 

A door at the far end of the hall opened and 
a servant entered, bearing lighted candles. 


234 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“Your Lordship, a messenger waits in the 
outer hall,” he said. “One who hath ridden post- 
haste from London.” 

“From London, Yorrick?” said Yelverton. 
“Beshrew me, ’tis a season of bad weather and 
dark days for such a ride! Show him hither.” 

Michael turned to follow the servant. 

“Nay, not thee, Michael,” said his master. 
“There is no haste for thee to go. Fill thyself 
a cup of sherry-sack from the flagon yonder. 
Thou art over-white, or else ’tis this yellow light 
from the candles turns thee pallid. Cheer up 
thy heart, old friend, and hear the gossip from 
London with me. ’Tis doubtless but a carrier 
who brings Christmas letters to the neighbour- 
hood — though we expect to be forgot as far 
north as this. Ah! he comes now.” 

The door at the end of the hall swung open 
again and a man entered. He was dressed in 
the beautiful dark uniform of the Queen’s pri- 
vate guard, and upon the sleeve of his tabard 
glittered the imperial coat-of-arms. 

Going forward, he bowed deeply to Lord Yel- 
verton, then thrust his hand into a hidden breast- 
235 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


pocket and drew forth a letter, which he handed 
to him. It was written on parchment and bound 
about with purple-silk floss, sealed where it was 
tied with the Queen’s seal. 

'Trom Her Majesty!” exclaimed Yelverton, 
turning it to the light. “From Her Majesty!” 

“When was this intrusted to you, good sir? 
Have you lost time in bearing it from Court ?” 

“Not an hour, your Lordship,” he answered. 
“I was bidden to speed, and so rode in hot haste, 
changing horses as they failed me.” 

“In truth, you bear the marks of fatigue,” 
replied Lord Yelverton, “and have earned a 
night’s rest out of the saddle. I thank you for 
your despatch. See, Michael, that naught is 
lacking for our guest’s comfort.” 

When the two men had gone, Yelverton stood 
in puzzled thought with the letter in his hand. 
He turned it slowly about and read the super- 
scription without breaking the seal. 

“From Her Majesty,” he said again, half 
aloud. “Now, what hath brought me to her 
mind, I wonder. Rather,” smiling ruefully, 
“rather, I should wonder what hath banished me 
236 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


from her mind so long. She is not given to 
forgetting the young and strong and useful of 
us who bear titles. There is no peer in England 
but feels the Queen’s bridle and reins. They 
may be of silk, and it may please Her Grace to 
let them hang idle on his neck awhile, but when 
she wishes to put him to his paces — Gad! her 
small hands can draw them taut enough.” 

Then with an impatient movement he broke 
the seal, unfolded the crackling parchment and 
read. There were but a few lines written in the 
bold, beautiful hand he knew. When he fin^ 
ished, he gave a short laugh, folded the letter 
again and thrust it into his doublet. 

“So,” he said, “so.” 

Then he picked up a pipe from the table, filled 
it slowly and lit it with a coal from the hearth. 
When the rings of smoke went circling upward, 
he leaned down to the table again and touched 
a bell. 

Presently Michael entered and stood waiting. 

“See my traps be packed, good Michael,” he 
said. “I ride on the morrow to London — and 
to Court — by the Queen’s command.” 

237 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


The man said nothing, nor by look or sign 
expressed surprise; still he waited. 

‘‘Do you ride alone, my Lord?’^ he said at 
last. 

“You go with me, Michael,” Yelverton re- 
turned, flashing a smile at the eager face through 
the haze of smoke. “You go with me as long 
as you wish to, old friend.” 


238 


TOUCHING ON SOME EVENTS IN 
THE PASSING OF TEN YEARS 
AT THE COURT OF ELIZA- 
BETH 


CHAPTER XI 


T en years had slipped by since the night 
of sea-mist and darkness when Richard 
Davenport met death in the hall of Somerset 
Palace. Of that death, those who knew said 
little. The drunken guardsmen who had looked 
on with dazed eyes and scattered wits at the 
simple ceremony of his knighting, comprehended 
nothing of the import of it, nor would they 
have been believed had they repeated the tale. 
The Queen’s whims were many and varied, so 
the people knew, but there was a limit to even 
their credulity, and the world is slow to believe 
that facts are stranger than fiction. As for the 
guardsmen themselves, the events of that trou- 
blesome night had time to fade from their mem- 
ories long before they were released from New- 
gate, for they were given safe escort there at 
break of day following the tragedy, and it was 
many dolorous months ere they walked the streets 
of London free men. 


241 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

Lord Burghley did not need the command of 
silence Her Majesty laid upon him regarding 
the passing of Davenport, and De Simier was 
ever a secretive and silent man. His mind was 
chained fast to a few matters, and these were of 
such imminent importance and required the ex- 
ercise of so much tact, diplomacy, and patience, 
that they swept all littler things away. The im- 
pression of the death-scene in the great hall 
stayed with him as the memory of a picture in 
which the central figure had been unusually fine, 
and where the setting was curious and interest- 
ing. But life had been tiresomely full of incident 
to De Simier. This one touched him not at all. 
Twenty men of obscure birth might have been 
wounded by the castle guard and knighted by 
the Queen, to suit her passing humour, and it 
would not have affected the French Envoy, while 
whether they lived to enjoy their honours or 
died of their wounds would be of equal indiffer- 
ence to him. He, with Lord Burghley, had no 
need of the command to silence. 

About Somerset House at the time the gossip 
had winged its way that one Lord Richard Caver- 
den, arriving late at the palace, had encountered 
242 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


some difficulty with a drunken guard, who had 
drawn a dagger and struck him his death-blow. 
That the body of this unhappy gentleman had 
been embalmed and laid in the death-chamber was 
also known, while further it was reported that 
the Queen, Lord Burghley, and Lord Caverden’s 
young daughter, whom he had brought to Court 
with him, visited him as he lay ready for burial. 
Thereafter his body was carried the far and diffi- 
cult journey to the long-sealed vault of his 
fathers at Caverden, a densely wooded estate that 
few knew, as it lay upon the vexed north bor* 
derland. 

The Lady Joyce Caverden remained at 
Court under the Queen’s protection, and shortly 
took her place among the younger Maids of 
Honour. 

Still, about the whole story, in spite of the 
consummate skill with which it had been woven 
and set afloat — none could say by whom — there 
was an air of improbability and of suppressed 
truth; a certain unreality and mystery pervaded 
it and made it hard of belief. 

That one Lord Caverden had been laid in the 
death-chamber, there could be no doubt. Two 

243 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


yeoman of the guard had carried him there in 
the hour before dawn. The royal embalmers also 
had whispered it about that never had they seen 
the body of such a man; he was like a thing 
of carven marble, they said, and lay six foot four 
inches upon his bier. By order they had clothed 
him again in the beautiful buff garments, and 
the Queen herself had covered the red stain 
on the doublet with her own handkerchief of 
lace. 

Notwithstanding all this, there were those who 
maintained that Lord Richard Caverden, King 
Henry’s good comrade, had died unwed and with- 
out an heir, whereupon the lands of Caverden 
reverted to the Crown. However, none had more 
than their unaided word for this, and unproven 
words go at small value. That the dead man 
had been strangely unknown was conceded, but 
that Her Majesty accepted him as the son of her 
father’s friend, there could also be no denying. 
In truth, she spoke to one and another, quite 
simply, of her sorrow for the tragedy. Still, no 
one dared question her in any manner or give 
voice to the curiosity and doubt that consumed 
them. Such a question would have been frozen 
244 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


back upon the lips of the person who uttered it 
by a word or look of the Queen, so that even time 
would have had no power to obliterate it from 
memory. And the matter had to stand. A little 
page gossiped of how he had spent an hour in 
the haunted stair-room with Lady Joyce Caver- 
den, had kept her company and eaten the frosted 
cakes Ulick brought, for she would touch none 
of them. 

He told of the quaint, short-waisted gown she 
had worn, unlike in fashion any he had seen, but 
far more beautiful, and he dwelt on the smallness 
of the high-heeled yellow slippers also. Indeed, 
he stoutly held that she was a very fairy princess 
for loveliness, and straightway fell out of favour 
with the Maids of Honour by reason of certain 
frank comparisons he drew between the new lady 
of his heart and themselves. 

Hearing this report of the little page, some 
said it went to prove that at least the Lady Joyce 
arrived earlier at the palace than her father, 
though that was a small matter one way or the 
other and set no questions at rest. There was 
also the chatter of the strange Egyptian ring 
being brought by a maid to Her Majesty, but 

245 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


those who asked Ulick regarding that, went away 
more puzzled than they came; for the old and 
the wise say little. 

So rumours crept about, and the coming of 
the new Maid of Honour was a nine days’ won- 
der. Report said she had fainted away at the 
Queen’s feet when the death of her father was 
told her. Therefore, she certainly had not known 
of it earlier. 

Lady Stafford knew the whole truth, and the 
Court physician could have untied some of these 
tangles for the light-tongued feather-brains, who 
were vexed by what they could not fathom, but 
Lady Stafford kept her own counsel, and the 
Court physician was a cross-grained, irritable 
man to all but Her Majesty, and few plied him 
with questions. 

In this wise it came about as there were so 
many connecting links lost in the story of the 
Lady Joyce Caver den — links the gossips could 
not recover and set in place, search they ever 
so diligently — there grew about her a certain 
mystery. 

That she took her place among the Queen’s 
ladies as one to the manner born there was no 
246 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


gainsaying, and her beauty was a thing beyond 
dispute. There are types of beauty upon which 
the whole world agrees, even as throughout the 
universe — on this star, and every other — there 
can be no question of the loveliness of a rose, 
for now and again God creates something per- 
fect, to satisfy Himself and show the world what 
is possible. 

The Lady Joyce Caverden was sweet also — 
as a rose is sweet — as unthinkingly, and as much 
because of her nature. What was evil in those 
around her she failed to see, though she missed no 
faintest good in any, and being most gentle and 
courteous to all, she received for the most part 
gentleness and courtesy in return. But she did 
not often smile and was never merry as the others 
of her age, while in her eyes grew that melan- 
choly expression that had touched the Queen’s 
heart in the eyes of Richard Caverden. All the 
little pages were her friends, and the yeomen 
of the guard doffed their scarlet beef-eaters to 
her as deeply as they did to Her Majesty, making 
her a particular obeisance they gave no other lady 
of the Court. 

Old Ulick, whom neither flattery nor charm 
247 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


could set a-talking, told her stories of the days 
of King Henry’s youth when his heart was un- 
spoiled, and no evil of the world, the flesh, or 
the devil, had touched him. He drew pictures 
of the debonair boy of twenty, who had the 
strength of ten. According to the old yeoman, 
the King could draw the long-bow to his ear 
and hit a farther mark than any of his archers. 
He could unseat every knight in the tournament ; 
could tire outright twenty strong horses when 
he rode, and on foot could outrun his swiftest 
runners. No memory of those later days, when 
the freshness of the morning was gone, and the 
world-weary autocrat hardened his soul against 
all good, dwelt with Ulick, nor did he speak of 
them. To him King Henry was always King 
Harry of England, the beautiful boy-king, with 
red-gold hair, and a love-song on his lips. He 
often told Lady Joyce of her grandfather as well, 
whom he remembered as the most favoured of 
all the Court gentlemen. 

In time it was granted by those who still took 
interest in the matter, that Lord Caverden must 
have wed disastrously, and had reason for keep- 
ing silent regarding his wife. That his son and 
248 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


heir came rightfully to his own, no one had 
courage to doubt further. What had the mark 
of the royal sanction and acceptance was be- 
yond cavil of others. 

That those butterflies, the Maids of Honour, 
were bitterly jealous of Joyce Caverden was 
quite true. She read smoothly in the Latin, and 
spoke French as a French sister of the Convent 
of St. Anne’s had spoken it to her, which was 
to English-bred girls a thing of aggravation. 
Then her stitchery was to be wondered at, but 
not attempted, and she could distil sweet waters 
from herbs and flowers, a most admirable and 
desired art. 

Furthermore, the Lady Joyce did not know 
anything of the Court scandals, nor would she 
gossip, and, in spite of her gentle speech, had 
ever with her a little cold, indifferent way that 
bespoke a temper which cared not in the least 
for what the world thought, and was not easily 
stirred by praise or blame, either spoken or con- 
veyed by other means. 

And these grievances were not all. Above 
every other the gay Maids of Honour had against 
249 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


the girl was this : the Queen loved her. And next, 
and equally fatal in creating dislike, the gentle- 
men of the Court followed her with eyes that 
said more than words, to those who understood 
the language. 

If the Lady Joyce had had knowledge of 
these many undercurrents of feeling, she gave 
no sign, but went in and out among the other 
ladies, taking her place as it fell, either near 
Her Majesty or farther away, with a simple 
composure unreadable and baffling to those who 
noted it. 

But these jealousies and heart-burnings were 
of the past. Ten years smooth away much dis- 
like that has no real ground for living, and the 
years had gone by. The young beauties who had 
been Maids of Honour to Her Majesty when 
Lady Joyce Caver den first came to Somerset 
Palace were Maids of Honour no more. They 
had all married, and their places were filled with 
fresh and lovely faces. These new ladies thought 
little and cared less for bygone gossip, affairs of 
the hour being enough to keep their minds and 
tongues busy. They allowed Lady Joyce her 
250 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


place as the Queen’s favourite and grudged it 
not at all, for it seemed she had always held it 
by some right. Neither were they jealous of 
her, for, while she was most beautiful, she was 
older than any of them and it was quite certain 
she would never marry, though no reason was 
forthcoming why she should not. It was said 
she was indifferent to all men, but most coldly 
sweet and indifferent to those who loved her. 
To the Queen, who disliked her favourites of the 
Court to marry, and was annoyed by the changes 
that constant weddings brought about, this trait 
in the character of Lady Joyce possibly recom- 
mended itself more than any other. At least she 
extolled it as a virtue to any and all by whom 
it was mentioned, dwelling upon it at tiresome 
length to those whom she had reason for think- 
ing disagreed with her. 

Time had been no enemy to Joyce Caverden. 
She was taller, and the slender lines of her figure 
were more perfectly rounded. The pink no 
longer flew in and out of her face as in those 
far-off days, for she was not easily moved to any 
emotion. Indeed, there was less of pink against 
the warm white than there had been, though the 

251 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


texture of the skin was still smoothly fine as 
the leaf of a flower. 

Her silvery, blond hair waved in soft fulness 
about her head as of old, but the colour had 
deepened by many tones. 

The artificial, luxurious life of the Court, with 
its intrigues, complexity, and polished heartless- 
ness, had left her unspoiled, by reason that while 
she was in it she was not of it. A certain 
simplicity of thought and action kept her apart 
from what would have harmed her, and withal 
she had a boundless charity and thought no 
evil. 

No woman of the day was more courted or 
desired, for she was very beautiful, and while 
dwelling in the sunlight of royal favour wielded 
a strange influence over the Queen. 

Love was a thing that came to her but once. 
There was no man who loved her but felt the 
hopelessness of his passion, the madness of think- 
ing she would change. To all men, as the little 
chattering Maids of Honour who watched her 
said, ‘'the Lady Joyce was as kind as she was 
admirably indifferent,” and they who flirted, 
courted compliments, lived on the cream of flat- 
252 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

tery and the spice of coquetry, marvelled at her 
as a wonder past comprehension. 

To the Queen alone Joyce Caverden showed 
a warm tenderness, for something hidden in the 
depths of that strange, unsatisfied, subtle nature 
— that was more unforgiving to its own sins 
than it was to those of others — appealed to her 
pity as well as her love. 

She knew no fear of Her Majesty in any mood 
or temper, and by a thousand ways charmed her 
in her hours of bitter discontent and weariness 
of all things. For these ten years had not been 
kind to Queen Elizabeth. They had stolen the 
last remnant of her beauty, bleached the gold 
from her hair, and set the pitiful marks of age 
upon her face. Her lithe grace of movement was 
gone and she grew angular and lame. Against 
all these changes her fierce pride rebelled, and 
she blinded herself to them and insisted the world 
should be blinded also. 

As youth slipped away, her vanity grew great- 
er, till her love of admiration was scoffed at 
behind her back, and mocked hourly by the fresh 
loveliness on every side. Apart from the folly 

253 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


of vanity, the Queen was clear-headed and far- 
seeing, keen of wit, and sharp of tongue as ever. 
That marvellous gift of holding her friends and 
keeping their devotion did not desert her. She 
was surrounded by the greatest men of the age; 
the men of action and the men who dreamed 
dreams ; statesmen who have been the wonder of 
the years; poets who have sung for all time; 
soldiers and sailors whose very names warm the 
heart yet. And among them all Elizabeth played 
the game of life with vast skill and diplomacy 
still, setting one power of Europe against an- 
other for the final good of England; France 
against Scotland and Spain, and the Netherlands 
against both; while as of old she moved the 
living pieces upon the world’s great chess-board 
with her small, white, wrinkled hands, and smiled 
to herself. But she grew very tired, and the 
affairs of state weighed her frail body down. A 
deep and undying regret burned into her soul 
that there was no heir, no heir beloved of the 
people and herself, to take her place, but that the 
crown would at last rest upon the head of the 
son of the Queen of Scots, whom she, with all 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

England, had ever counted her bitterest enemy. 
For fifteen years she had stood between this 
woman and death, and now the climax had come. 
Her ministers entreated her to make an ending, 
and gave her no rest day or night. 

On the other hand, she was threatened from 
many quarters. 

Spain made no secret of saying that the man 
who would take Elizabeth’s life should be canon- 
ised as a saint. 

The Pope poisoned every Catholic mind against 
her and directed a crusade to defeat her. 

There were plots for her assassination thought 
out on sea and on land — subtle, deep-laid plots, 
following thick and fast on each other. Yet she 
knew no fear, or at least showed nothing of it 
to any, but went freely about as in the golden 
earlier days, refusing to hear or see aught of 
danger. Her people were her people, and she 
trusted them wholly or not at all. To her min- 
isters and courtiers, her Ladies-in- Waiting and 
chamberers, the envoys and ambassadors, she was 
as a lock without a key, a puzzle past finding out, 
a complexity of all the intensely lovable charac- 

255 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


teristics welded with those that were repelling, 
subtle, and capricious; but to the people she had 
never changed, and treated them as a mother 
treats a child she loves. She listened with end- 
less patience to their woes and griefs, and gave 
them her pity. 

The Court, following the Queen’s mood, had 
been restless for many months. It journeyed to 
Whitehall, and masks and pageants filled the days 
and nights. Then it moved to Richmond, and 
from there to Greenwich, or, as Elizabeth called 
it, her “House of Delight.” Even yet she went 
Maying into the Greenwich forest with her la- 
dies and gentlemen, and there were revels on the 
green in fair weather and bowling matches and 
tourneys, though from year to year the actors 
changed in all these scenes. 

The pages who had been at Somerset Palace 
on that night of mist ten years back were all 
sturdy fellows, long of limb and bearded of face 
now, and other little lads flitted about in blue 
and silver, and ate comfits, and pulled merry- 
thoughts with the Queen’s maids. The guards 
and servants had for the most part given place 
256 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


to younger men, and old Ulick kept the plais- 
ance and postern gate no more, for he with 
many another had come to the end of life’s 
road. 


257 







LORD YELVERTON RETURNS TO 
LONDON 



CHAPTER XII 


I T was a morning in January, and the Court 
was once more at Somerset House. They 
had fled the palace at Greenwich by reason of the 
plague, for one of the Ladies-in- Waiting had been 
seized with the dread illness in the Queen’s very 
presence, and had fallen to the floor horribly con- 
vulsed. When her death followed in the space 
of three hours, that glittering, life-loving com- 
pany grew panic-stricken, and in the space of 
three more hours the palace was deserted. Here 
in Somerset House, wind-swept and sweet from 
having been freshly set in order, they breathed 
once more, and fear gradually took wing. 

In the coffee-room the morning sun streamed 
through the great emblazoned window and paint- 
ed the waxed floor with checkered colour; across 
the rose-garden, deserted and forlorn now, yet 
showing here and there through the snow on the 
bushes scarlet berries where the blossoms had 
261 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


been, one could see the Thames glittering in the 
morning light. 

A lady stood by the window and looked out, 
while two others worked at their tambour frames 
and chattered. 

“Her Majesty hath gathered them in from the 
east and west,” said one — a dark, bright-faced 
girl — “aye, and from the south and from the 
north! We will not lack for courtiers at the 
next mask. Those who do not love the life in 
London must perforce grow to love it, or 
smother their dislike and teach themselves to 
smile at it. 

“It seems there have been many goodly, ad- 
mirable gentlemen tucked away on their estates 
here and there, in out-of-the-way places, prefer- 
ring — with wretched taste — a dull life to a merry 
one, and these the Queen hath dragged from their 
hiding-places. My faith! I heard her say but 
yesterday to Lord Walsingham, ‘Now, my Lord, 
’tis to see who are our friends. The times be 
troublesome. We have bidden all those to Court 
whose long absence hath given us reason to doubt 
their loyalty. Yet, mind you this, though we 
may have what looks like reason, we do not say 
262 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


we doubt it. But we would know where we can 
best put our faith. We will see these truant 
gentlemen for ourselves and learn from their own 
lips their love for us. Marry! we need them; 
England needs them — aye, all the young and the 
strong — for those who are not for us are against 
us.’ ” 

The girl paused and drew a long breath, and 
the beautiful woman standing looking out at the 
river smiled a little. 

“You have copied Her Majesty’s words and 
manner to the life. Lady Lettice,” she said. “ ’Tis 
so indeed she speaks.” 

The other girl, working at her tambour frame, 
broke into a merry laugh. 

“ ’Tis nothing to what she can do. Lady 
Joyce,” she said. 

Joyce Caverden threw her hands out with a 
little protesting gesture. 

“Nay,” she said, “I will listen no further, 
sweetheart. The Queen’s manner and words are 
her own. I like them not on other lips.” 

The pretty Maid of Honour pouted. 

“Thou art ever so particular, Joyce,” she said. 

“I meant no harm. But is it not gladsome to 

\ 

263 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


think there will be many new faces at Court? 
Some handsome ones, too, I trow. Beshrew me, 
but I love new faces.” 

Joyce sighed and smiled again. 

‘‘And I love old ones,” she said gently. 

“But thou art so queer and so difficult to un- 
derstand,” returned the other. “Thou art quiet 
and peaceful enough withal, but never gay. 
Now, I care naught for quiet and peace, but love 
gayety and joyance and all delight.” 

Joyce shook her head. 

“Think you not I love such things too, sweet- 
heart? Aye, truly I do, though, look you, they 
come no more my way. But enough of this. 
I am glad for thy sake the Court will be 
gay. The Queen hath scarcely smiled since 
news was brought her of Sir Philip Sidney’s 
death.” 

“And when the Queen doth not smile, we may 
not smile either,” said the little dark maid. “ ’Tis 
a treasonable, deadly thing to have a light heart 
when Her Majesty hath a heavy one, all the 
world knows. But she hath shaken off gloom 
at last, and refreshed her spirit but yester morn 
264 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


by counting over all her gowns with the Mistress 
of the Robes. By the Rood! she was weary 
before it was done, for there are no less than 
three thousand of them, each one more gorgeous 
than the last! I would she might fancy me 
enough to bequeath to me the one of yellow un- 
cut velvet trimmed with lace lilies and tiny 
pearls; but I have no favour with her, an’ my 
tongue hath twice displeased her.” 

“ ’Tis in truth a naughty, wayward tongue,” 
said Joyce smiling. “Let it not run away with 
thee, little one.” 

“ ’Tis the one God gave me,” answered the 
girl, laughing. “My faith! I would have made 
myself differently throughout. But — of these 

new gentlemen, heard you not that one arrived 
last night? No? Well, he did. And I was with 
the Queen reading her the French Court news 
when he was ushered in. Aye, truly! and she 
was mightily glad to see him and straightway 
forgot me; so I — well, never mind — I enjbyed 
myself as never before! He was the goodliest 
man I ever saw. Lady Joyce. Stood six feet two 
if he stood an inch! An’ he was mightily dark 
265 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

and full of grace in all his movements, and his 
eyes were great and brilliant; but he was not 
young, for there were silver shades on his hair, 
and he had no gayety about him. The Queen 
talked to him till I thought she would never tire, 
and questioned him and drew him on to tell her 
of all his inmost life, as is her subtle way. She 
hath the art, you know, of turning a man’s 
thoughts inside out. And, in good sooth, this 
handsome gentleman told her much that he had 
not intended to, before she was through with 
him, that I will gainsay. 

‘‘It seems he lives in the very north of Scot- 
land and was left great estates there by some 
old bachelor with few of kith or kin. It was in 
this fashion, as far as I could follow : These 
lands and moneys were left to him on condition 
he earned certain money, and was willing to 
marry the niece and ward of the rich old bache- 
lor. Now, he was mightily in debt, and there- 
fore over-willing to marry the maid and share 
the fortune. The money also he earned by jug- 
gling on the streets of London and at bridge- 
end ” 


266 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


The Lady Joyce Caverden had turned with a 
sudden cry and her two hands held tight against 
her heart. 

The girl stopped speaking and stared with 
astonishment. 

*‘What hurt thee?” she said anxiously. ‘‘Art 
ill?” 

“Truly, no!” Joyce returned. “ ’Twas noth- 
ing. A catch o’ my heart — go on with thy 
story.” 

“Prythee, ’tis well. Thou didst startle me out 
o’ my senses! Well — well — where was I? Oh, 
yes ! 

“He juggled at bridge-end until in all he had 
twenty rose-nobles — the gold that was needed — 
and then, because he cared not whether he lived 
or died ” 

“Said he so?” Joyce asked breathlessly, “or 
are those thy words?” 

“Nay, I make up none of the tale,” she re- 
turned primly. “ ’Tis as I heard it and as he 
spoke, word for word. Then, because he cared 
not whether he lived or died, he went to Scot- 
land to marry old Frazer’s — now I mind me of 
267 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

the old dour bachelor’s name — old Frazer’s 
ward, but, alack-a-day ! ’twas nearly a year 
since his death, for the law had moved slowly, 
and in that time what think you had hap- 
pened ?” 

The other Maid of Honour shook her head. 

Joyce Caverden said nothing. Her great blue 
eyes were frozen upon the face of the little gar- 
rulous maid, who vastly enjoyed the effect her 
story was having. 

‘‘Why, look you both — just simply thisT she 
went on. “That little fool, who was niece and 
ward to Frazer, had married — yes, married (or 
thought she had) — the bailiff of his estate ere 
the breath had fairly left her uncle’s body! 
And now she was, though but sixteen years old, 
the mother of twins — twin boys, mark you — and 
the bailiff — aye, there is more to follow — the 
bailiff (a young man and mightily handsome) 
had met his death at the hands of some jealous 
lover of hers in a common tavern brawl! So 
was she left lamenting — a wife, a mother, and a 
widow. Now hearken! the story goes a bit fur- 
ther. Of this marriage to the bailiff there was 
268 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


no proof worth the reading. Sortie wretched 
justice o’ the peace had read the lines o’er them, 
and as she was under age, and there had been 
no witness, it would not hold good before any 
court. 

‘Truly, that little fool had made a tangle of 
her affairs; but, as these things were, she was 
still that dour old Frazer’s ward, and to end a 
long story, though a vastly entertaining one. 
Lord Yelverton — for so it seems the goodly dark 
gentleman is called — decided to still wed the 
wench, as much now for her sake as his own, 
for, in truth, otherwise she was in most pitiful 
case. 

“ ‘Moreover,’ he said, ‘ ’twas all the same to 
him whether he wed or no ; one way or the other, 
he cared not a toss.’ But ’twas mightily chival- 
rous, to my mind, and the tale was well worth 
hearing.” She paused, then caught her breath 
and went on. “But that is not all yet. I had 
almost let the best part slip. He hath not met 
the woman from that day to this, though the 
little twins be ten years old, and of them he is 
vastly fond. What think you of that?” 

269 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


The other Maid of Honour gave a sigh of re- 
lief as the tale ended. 

The Lady Joyce stared with wide eyes at the 
thoughtless little speaker. 

“How came you to hear all this, sweetheart?” 
she asked softly, leaning toward her. 

The girl laughed and glanced up through her 
curled lashes, biting her scarlet lips at the same 
moment. 

“Now thou wilt be vexed,” she said. “And 
’twas no harm. I slipped behind the yellow cur- 
tains, curled up on the great window-seat, and 
heard every word from there. Marry ! the Queen 
forgot I was in the room.” 

By one chance and another, as well as in an- 
swer to special summons, there happened to be 
a large gathering of notable men in London. 
The flower of the nobility was again at Court, 
and after six months of depression, felt alike by 
the masses and the aristocracy, a reaction had 
set in and gayety held sway. 

England was on the eve of the tragedy of 
Queen Mary’s death. Plots and counter-plots 
were being constantly ferreted out by the secret 
270 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


police, and the life of Elizabeth was threatened 
openly in Spain and Rome. Cross-currents of 
feeling swept the English people, yet, in the 
main, they were deeply loyal to the throne. 
Through all, the Queen gave them her absolute 
good faith, for at least she had a fearlessness 
and high courage. For the time being she as- 
sumed a spirit of light-heartedness — if she had 
it not — and was often seen in public with so small 
a guard as to be virtually unprotected. Being 
the most consummate actress of her day, she 
blinded all but the keenest eyes to the true state 
of her mind. Her unstrung nerves, fits of long 
weeping, the sleepless pacing of her room, were 
secrets few knew. 

She had not yet signed the fatal document that 
the world condemns, though by night and day 
her ministers urged her to it. 

The unlifted strain told little by little, for the 
Queen’s eyes grew large and her face sharp and 
lined. Yet in public she did not relax her vivac- 
ity one whit, or fail to take a seemingly eager 
interest in the pastime of the hour. 

The palace at Westminster was being remod- 
271 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


died in part, and Richmond was not to her taste. 
So Somerset House was thrown open, and the 
French buildings were filled with members of 
the foreign embassy and their wives and daugh- 
ters. 

Men who had been long absent from England 
were seen once more upon the London thorough- 
fares, and oftentimes were received and recog- 
nised by warm, ringing cheers. 

Lord Leicester, Lieutenant-General of the 
troops, was freshly home from the Netherlands. 
Sir Walter Raleigh had returned from Virginia. 
Lord Howard and Drake happened to be in port, 
and the Pelican lay at Deptford. Young Admiral 
Winter had been seen at St. PauFs, Captains 
Hawkins and Frobisher, with the Earl of Cum- 
berland and other rashly adventurous young 
nobles, were awaiting spring to again sail 
north. 

A spirit of mad mirth and good fellowship 
overflowed the city, and for the time the dregs 
of care sank to the bottom of the world’s sim- 
mering caldron of great affairs. 

The Thames was bright with ships at anchor 
272 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


bearing many flags, and the weather being mild 
and fair for January, small craft plied back and 
forth constantly. 

Twilight was creeping over London, and lights 
here and there were beginning to twinkle out. 
There was to be a great mask at Somerset 
House that night, and the candle-bearers were 
busy, for the palace would be lit from wing 
to wing. 

In the long halls there were mighty cressets 
branching from the walls, holding twenty tall wax 
tapers apiece, and many of these were already 
showing their fairy flame; but the shorter pas- 
sageways that led to the suites of rooms, or 
threaded here and there in what seemed, to those 
unacquainted with the place, a perfect maze 
planned but to bewilder the wits, were dim and 
shadowy. Two men turned down one of these 
narrow passages a little after sunset, and they 
were talking together. One was dark and of a 
magnificent physique, and he walked with a lithe 
buoyancy. He wore a doublet of russet silk 
overlaid with silver brocade that glistened as he 
moved. The ruff at his throat was of Flemish 

273 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


lace, and his long-boots of russet-hued cordovan 
were pointed at the toes and of the latest fashion. 
About his waist he was girdled with a leather 
belt enclosed in flexible golden filigree, and from 
this dangled a small toy-like Venetian dagger, 
the case of which was studded thickly with 
turquoise. In his hand he carried a wide- 
brimmed soft hat circled with silver cord and 
tassels. 

The man at his side was white-haired, and the 
outline of his face was sharp and worn. His 
spare figure was clothed in long, black, rough 
silk nether-hose and black doublet, while upon the 
sleeves were embroidered in purple the coat-of- 
arms of the family of Yelverton, the house he 
served. He moved like a shadow beside the 
radiant figure in russet and silver. 

‘‘By my faith, Michael, we have taken the 
wrong turn and lost our bearings in these cross 
trails said the dark man. “Know you whether 
we should pass this stair? Methinks, after all, 
the Queen’s apartments lie in the opposite direc- 
tion, or I am vastly mistaken. Ah ! yonder comes 
a lady; we will ask her of her grace to set us 
274 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

right, for I have scant time to waste threading 
a maze.” 

The two men stopped and awaited the ap- 
proaching figure. The woman had entered the 
passage quite a long way from where they stood 
and now came slowly toward them, her eyes on 
the ground, looking intently about as though she 
searched for something. In one hand she held 
a crystal candlestick, in which was a lighted 
candle. 

She wore a gown of cream-hued uncut velvet 
bordered with narrow dark fur, and the long, 
open sleeves fell back, showing her bare white 
arms. 

Her hair, which was of a peculiar blond shade, 
was coiled high on her small head and caught 
there with a golden dart. The lashes of her 
eyes were dark, and the narrow arched brows 
matched in shade. 

The two men watched her as she came slowly 
nearer, and they scarce breathed. Suddenly she 
raised her eyes and saw them. The candle, which 
she shaded with one hand from the draughts in 
the passage, flickered, and threw rose-lights up 
over the beauty of her face. 

275 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Old Michael crossed himself. 

“Mother of Christ!” he said softly. 

Yelverton took a step forward and seemed 
about to speak, then stood still, and for the 
moment his voice failed. Presently he gained 
it. 

“May I beg of you to direct me to the yellow- 
room?” he said unsteadily. “Her Majesty grants 
me an audience there at this hour. But first — 
but — first — mademoiselle, pardon me, you search 
for something, do you not? If so, let me help 
you find it.” 

She gave him the deep courtesy of the Court, 
and smiled — a little, inscrutable smile. 

“I give thee thanks, but I have only dropped 
a rose,” she answered. “Some foot might crush 
it an’ it were left here; in any case it would die 
too soon, and I would not have it suffer over- 
much. Methinks, good sir, to pluck a flower is 
to do it enough evil. But, prythee, let me not 
detain you; the yellow-room lies but a short dis- 
tance yonder. I will lead the way.” 

Yelverton dropped on one knee and glanced 
here and there across the floor. 

276 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

‘‘A rose, say you?” he answered eagerly. 
‘‘Now, of what sort? A gloria, or the, Queen’s- 
heart, or a damask? Go you, Michael, a bit 
farther down and search by the wainscotting. 
Look carefully, old one ! It cannot be far. Look 
carefully !” 

The old figure moved slowly off, with bent 
head and downcast eyes; a vague trembling was 
in his limbs, and his hair stirred at the roots 
with an unnamed terror. 

Yelverton stood up, still glancing keenly about 
the darkening passage. 

“Said you it was a red rose?” he asked, lean- 
ing toward the girl. 

“In truth it was a red rose, though I said not 
so,” she answered with an upward glance. 

“One you had worn, perchance?” he ques- 
tioned persistently. “Is it not so?” 

“Marry! yes, though that is of small import. 
Trouble not further over it, sir, I pray thee. 
I will show thee on thy way.” 

The man took a step forward, and then 
stooped down and picked up the flower from 
where it lay in the deep shadow. 

277 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘"So!” he said, “I have it. But pardon me; 
art sure, mademoiselle, this was thy very rose?'" 

The woman gave a low laugh. 

‘Tn good sooth, yes,” she answered. “ "Tis 
a red rose, and I passed this way not ten 
moments ago, and lost just such a one to the last 
leaf!” 

“There be many roses i" the palace,” he an- 
swered warily, “though it be January. Many 
people also may have come this way and dropped 
a rose. "Tis a simple matter. Now, if this par- 
ticular one — and I know not that it is, on second 
notice, so very red — if, therefore, this especial 
one be not thine, egad! I might keep it. But, 
being thine, and as thou dost so desire it, why, 
unwillingly I give it back.” Then, as she took 
the flower, on a sudden his voice fell to a half 
whisper. 

“ "Tis the first rose I have held for many 
a day, mademoiselle,” he said, “for God knows 
I have sojourned long where they do not 
grow.” 

Slowly he drew her eyes up to his own, and 
slowly she held the rose out toward him. 

278 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

He took it without a word and closed his hand 
upon it. 

“I will lead on to the yellow-room, good 
sir,” she said softly. ‘Teradventure the Queen 
waits.” 


279 



THE JUGGLER AT THE MASK 

BALL 



I 




J 







CHAPTER XIII 


T he bell of St. Paul’s had just rung ten 
times. The night was frosty and a light, 
feathery snow fell steadily. It piled up on the 
riggings of ships at anchor on the Thames and 
outlined even their smallest ropes and spars. It 
covered the Queen’s barge as she lay at the foot 
of the marble water-stair, and turned her into 
a tiny fairy-castle of shining minarets and domes. 
It drifted into the gables and angles of Somerset 
House, draped the windows and powdered the 
flower-cut cornices and warm red brick walls 
with a silvery whiteness. From every window 
shone yellow candle-light, and the great doors 
above the colonnade swung open constantly as 
coach after coach drove up with their company 
of maskers. Dancing had not yet begun, but in 
the throne-room a little play was being given by 
the Lord Chamberlain’s Players, who were espe- 
cially bidden to the mask by Her Majesty. The 
283 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


sound of laughter and applause echoed from the 
group of onlookers as the short play ended, for 
it had been a merry comedy, and one written by 
young Ben Jonson. As the actors dispersed, 
they were not more motley in their dress than 
the courtiers themselves. The fashions of the 
time had been discarded, and notable men of the 
hour for once gladly lost their identity. 

Kings and queens of other days, grand dames 
and crusaders, fools and friars, shepherds and 
soothsayers, fairies and warlocks, witches and 
wizards, flitted through the halls or moved tow- 
ard the throne, draped and canopied with 
cloth of gold, where Elizabeth as the Queen 
of Sheba held her court of wisdom, beauty, and 
love. 

In a room in the French buildings just beyond 
the palace a man paced restlessly back and forth 
with long, swinging steps as the night wore 
on. Now and then he would stop and listen, 
his eyes burning; then, when no sound answ- 
ered him, would turn to his ceaseless walking 
again. 

“By the saints of God!” he said to himself 
hotly, “there could not be two such. The face 
284 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


was the same. Aye, the same fathomless eyes 
from which her soul looked up at me; the same 
red mouth and firm snowy chin ; the same strange 
blond hair that curls and blows about her head 
like sun-kissed foam — and yet — and yet — God! 
the dead do not return.” 

He swung about and stopped abruptly beneath 
a hanging light, while he unclasped his hand 
from the rose it still held and raised the flower 
to his lips. 

“ Tis the very madness which came upon me 
once before,” he said half fiercely. “It drives the 
last vestige of reason from my brain. Nay, I 
am a fool, a damnable fool. Ten years of life — 
aye, ten dull, slow-going centuries rather — have 
I given to a dream, an’ I am no whit cured, for 
it still hath more power over me to-day than 
any living reality. The one thing Fate refused 
me is still the one thing I desire, and, by the 
Lord Harry! I will have it yet. This woman 
hath her face. I will content myself with such 
beauty. Methinks there could not be such an- 
other soul as that I loved, but my lady of to-day 
is rarely gentle — aye, tender even of a flower; 
thoughtful lest some foot should crush the life 
285 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


from a rose. Verily, of such a spirit was Joyce 
Davenport.’^ 

A faltering step came down the outer hall 
and stopped; there was a knock at the door, and 
Yelverton strode across the room and threw it 
widely open. 

‘'Egad ! Michael, but I have grown impa- 
tient!” he cried. “Thy news, old one? Thy 
news? But first take this glass o’ wine and 
seat thyself, for thou art trembling like a 
leaf.” 

The old servant lifted the glass with a shak- 
ing hand to his lips, then put it down un- 
tasted. 

“Nay, my Lord,” he answered, “I want it 
not.” 

“Drink it,” said Yelverton shortly, a quick 
frown darkening his face. 

Michael obeyed and sat down in the chair he 
pushed forward. 

“Now,” said the man, standing before him 
still and dark. “Keep me not waiting, old one. 
Hast learnt aught?” 

“In truth, yes, my Lord,” he said as by an 
effort. “I went here and there through the 
286 


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palace and I spoke to one and another, a 
word to this one, a question to that. Little by 
little I got enough o’ the story to piece to- 
gether.” 

“Yes, yes!” interrupted Yelverton. “Tell it 
me, then.” 

“Ten years ago, my Lord,” the trembling voice 
went on, “come last September, there was a night 
o’ heavy mist an’ fog on London. That night 
one Lord Richard Caverden, whom none remem- 
ber to have seen or heard of before, came to 
Somerset House with his daughter. It may have 
been they arrived at different hours, no one 
knows. Lord Caverden was stabbed by a drunk- 
en guard, so they say, and died i’ the great hall, 
none being with him but the Queen and two of 
her ministers. His body, which was that of a 
vastly handsome man six foot four, was em- 
balmed and laid in the death-chamber. He lay 
in a suit of buff, with rough silk nether-hose. 
Thereafter was he transferred to Caverden. The 
Lady Joyce Caverden stayed i’ the palace as 
one of the Queen’s maids. No attendants came 
with either of them, but the Lady Joyce had 
always with her a small rough-haired dog, a 
287 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


dog of the common people, for two toes of 
each of his forefeet were broken, as the law 
commands.” 

The man listening made no sign, but his face 
was very white. 

‘"It was on a night of mist and fog ten years 
ago come last September, my Lord,” ended old 
Michael, ‘‘Davenport o’ the Bridge disappeared. 
He wore a suit o’ buff that evening, but one night 
earlier Mistress Joyce was said to have drowned 
herself i’ the Thames. My Lord ! my Lord !” the 
shaking voice broke into a cry, “ ’tis still a 
mystery, but there were not two other i’ Lon- 
don like those two. That fair woman whose 
rose you have is Joyce Davenport o’ the 
Bridge.” 

Yelverton leaned down and laid his hand on 
the bent shoulder. There was a light in his eyes 
and a wave of red had flooded his face to the 
very edge of the close dark hair. 

“Enough, good Michael!” he said hoarsely. 
“Speak no more. I thank thee for thy tidings. 
How goes the time, old one?” 

“St. Paul hath rung eleven,” he answered. 

“And the dance goes on at the palace? I 
288 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


still wear the russet and silver — that will not 
do — that will not do, for ’tis a mask, and Her 
Majesty insists upon motley. 

‘‘Bring me the leathern suit. Aye, I know 
you have it folded somewhere. Bring me the 
leathern suit and the peaked hat with the pheas- 
ant’s feather; yes, and the cordovan long-boots 
with battlemented tops and — By the Mass! an’ 
if you would please me, tell me not that you have 
forgotten the mask!” 

The punch-bowls, standing on little tables here 
and there through the rooms and passageways, 
had been refilled many times since the dance be- 
gan, and the Lord of Revelry reigned for these 
few hours before the dawn. No masks were yet 
removed, and the scarlet lips or bearded ones 
below them curved in smiles and bandied mock- 
ing jest or flattery. 

Strange partners found each other and met 
and parted in the light-heeled throng. Here the 
Witch of Endor glided past, swiftly followed by 
an Egyptian Pharaoh; King Solomon stepped a 
coranto with Ruth; Alfred who burnt the cakes 
made love in a shadowy doorway to a little shep- 
herdess of the heathery hills. 

289 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


The Queen herself was growing tired; there 
were violet shadows beneath her eyes, and her 
hands trembled as they rested on the arm of her 
gilded chair. 

‘‘Methinks,” she said, turning to a gentleman 
near by, ‘‘that we have not recognised Lord Yel- 
verton.’’ 

“He hath not been here. Your Majesty,” he 
answered, “or we would have done so. But look, 
I pray you; who comes yonder?” 

A man threaded his way through the dancers 
with swift steps. He stood head and shoulders 
above those who passed, and as for his dress it 
was of sober brown leather, following the lines 
of his firmly knit figure as though moulded upon 
it. His boots, of soft tan, rose to the mid-thigh, 
and were flaring and battlemented. He was 
belted with a girdle of dull gold, from which 
dangled a toy-like Venetian dagger set with tur- 
quoise. The linen at the man’s throat was 
smooth and fair, and upon his short dark hair 
rested a peaked leather cap holding one long 
pheasant’s feather. He was masked as the rest, 
and came forward to the foot of the Queen’s 
throne and there knelt to kiss her hand. 


290 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


^Who art thou?” she said, smiling, ‘‘or what 
name art thou known by, friend?” 

“I am but a juggler, Your Majesty,” he an- 
swered softly, “one who earns his bread by the 
tossing of knives and balls.” 

“We will test thy skill on the morrow,” she 
returned, nodding. “Go thy way and be merry. 
Thou art most welcome, good sir.” 

He moved lightly down and mingled with the 
dancers. Here and there his eyes roved, search- 
ing constantly, ceaselessly, but he spoke to none. 
Leaving the throne-room, he stepped out into the 
great hall, and as he did so a woman passed 
him. 

She wore a gown of ivory-hued silk banded 
here and there with golden embroidery. The 
square-cut bodice showed the dazzling fairness 
of her skin, and her silvery hair was coiled 
high upon her head, where a golden dart held 
it. Her slippers were red-heeled and of a bright 
yellow. 

The juggler followed at distance as she went 
slowly on and entered a little ante-chamber hung 
in rose-hued silk. The place was quite deserted, 
291 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

and she threw herself into a chair before a fire- 
place, as though weary. 

The man watched her as she leaned forward 
with her hands clasped. She looked into the fire 
and sat very still. 

Then he entered the room and drew the cur- 
tains at the door behind him. 

The woman rose to her feet with a broken 
cry. 

Yelverton stepped over to her and looked down 
into her hidden face. 

‘Take off thy mask, sweetheart,'’ he said, “for 
as God lives, I know thee!" 

She raised her hands slowly and unclasped the 
black mask, which fluttered to the floor. Then 
she looked up steadily. 

“Who say you I am, good gentlemen ?" 
she asked, “and why have you sought me 
here?" 

Yelverton caught her by the wrist, and, tossing 
off his mask also, bent his face close to hers. 
The light that was in his eyes when he heard old 
Michael's story still burned there, and upon his 
292 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


cheek a small scar, that the girl knew, showed 
in dull red line. 

‘Thou art Joyce Davenport, my beloved,” he 
answered unsteadily. “Life has been a mas- 
querade for thee these ten years, God knows why. 
But I do not doubt thee. Whatever lies behind 
of evil or mystery, thou hast had no share in it. 
Thy soul is as white as when I gave thee fare- 
well by the latticed window o’ the toll-house. 
And of this one thing be sure: Fate shall not 
trick me of thee twice!” 

The girl drew a quick breath. 

“I am known in the palace as the Lady Joyce 
Caverden, good sir,” she answered gently. “ ’Tis 
a name well remembered. My father’s father 
was the King’s friend, and my father, who died 
here by violence — as doubtless thou hast heard — 
lies in the vault at Caverden. Prythee, dost 
still question who I am?” 

“Nay,” he answered with a sudden flashing 
smile, “I question it not one whit. I know ! 
And thou wilt not answer me, my Lady, I will 
to the Queen for the truth. 

“But, hark thee!” his tone changing, “’tis 
cruel, yet will I say it. Thy grandfather, if he 

293 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


was the gay Lord of Caverden, died unwed, as 
all the world knows. The castle on the border 
hath been empty these five and twenty years. I 
have oft passed that way and know it well. The 
forest where rode the King's hunting-parties is 
grown so dense none enter it more, and the place 
is given over to bats and owls and the spirits 
o’ the past.” 

The girl steadied herself by one hand against 
the mantel. 

“Though what you say be true,” she returned, 
“ ’tis equally true that my father died Lord 
Richard Caverden, and was borne to his home. 
For me, I am indeed the Lady Joyce Caverden.” 

“By the Queen’s grace,” he said, “by the 
Queen’s grace only.” 

She gave him a deep, sweeping courtesy, and 
rose and stood before him in sweet-graced 
silence. 

Yelverton looked at her in silence also for a 
moment. 

“Think you I will wring the truth from thee?” 
he said in a low, quick tone. “Nay, by the Mass ! 
’tis not my way. Yet I will know by sunrise. 
’Tis a coil, a damnable coil, and some evil is at 
294 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


the bottom of it. Yet I stake my faith ’twas none 
of thy contriving. Thou art in the right, though 
the whole world be wrong. Fate hath been cruel. 
The years have slain my youth; yet to-night I 
have forgiveness for even these enemies, since 
I have found my own again.’’ 

The girl turned to him with a little cry, then 
stopped. 

‘‘Good my Lord,” she answered, giving him 
his title for the first time, “what would you ? In 
sooth, an’ if I were that maid you speak of, and 
peradventure have loved — though men be not 
often faithful so long to a memory — still what 
would you? Thou art wed.'* 

Yelverton threw back his head with a short, 
hard laugh. 

“Egad ! that at least is devilish truth !” he said, 
growing sober, “though I know not how you 
came to the knowledge of it. Think you — think 
you — that that would block my way to thee? 
That marriage? Not while the Pope hath power 
in Rome; not while there are other green coun- 
tries than England, and not while there is gold 
to pay for the breaking of unholy fetters. Of 
thy grace, think me not worse than I am. See 

295 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


you, I have lived straightly enough these ten 
years — but for thy sake only. 

‘‘As for the woman I married,” he went on, 
with a little shrug, “the woman who deemed 
herself the bailiff’s widow, and that I could not 
escape an’ I would have old Frazer’s gold — on 
my faith, I have not seen her a dozen times. 
We are less than strangers, and with intent we 
go separate ways. Report says she hath been 
vastly satisfied ; that she hath even played at love 
now and again with one gentleman or another. 
’Tis one to me. She is most sleek and comely. 
She eats, drinks, and sleeps, works at her stitch- 
ery and gossips with her cousins, the two ladies 
who ever bear her company. She doth not read 
— as they tell me she hath not the art — nor doth 
she care for the outdoor world. Yet she loves 
the little lads who were born ere I saw her, and 
she reflects at times, ’tis said, in melancholy fash- 
ion upon the bailiff — saying her rosary with dili- 
gence for the repose of his soul. So. I have 
told you enough,” he ended. “And on the 
Rood! sweetheart, this woman shall not stand i’ 
my way. But come; in exchange, tell me the 
truth, nor let me fret my soul longer.” 

296 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


The impetuous, passionate words ceased and 
the girl glanced upward into his dark face. Her 
eyes slowly filled with tears. 

“Thou hast discovered the truth,” she said. 
“I be Joyce Davenport.” 

Yelverton spoke a broken word below his 
breath, then caught her in his arms and lifted 
her against his heart. 

“Aye, sweet!” he said, “God made not two 
such as thee to cross a man’s path. Now tell me, 
tell me straightway, how came this all so strange- 
ly about? Why was it told me on the bridge 
thou hadst been lost i’ the Thames? Methinks 
something is owed me for that night’s grief.” 

“Let me go,” she panted, “if you would have 
me tell thee aught. 

“Marry ! then, listen. It was Michael, than an- 
cient servant of thine, who came to me at night, 
that very last night after thou wert gone, and 
told me of the lands and gold in the north that 
might be thine if thou wouldst only have them. 
He said it would be ruin for me to wed thee, 
though I had not before thought of it so. Then 
he spoke of my father — of how he had lived only 
by Her Majesty’s grace. This also I had for- 
297 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

gotten, but it seemed quite plain to me, my Lord, 
as he spoke, that I must not wed thee. By 
reason of these things, I resolved to see thee no 
more. 

“Following this, my father learned thou hadst 
been at the toll-house. Aye, he was vastly angry 
and swore I should marry Gillian o’ the bear-gar- 
dens. The night was far spent when I went out 
on the Thames in the little punt. It seemed the 
best way, and I was not afraid. But the old bell- 
ringer followed with Giles Bowman, the ferry- 
man, and they took me from the river. Marry! 
the bell-ringer thanked God more for the saving 
of my soul than my body. It had not seemed 
to me so wicked an act, but mayhap he was 
right, for he was a Puritan and lived a holy life 
in his own way, harming none and praying 
much.” 

“Aye,” the man answered absently. “And 
then, sweetheart? And then?” 

“Afterward came my father on the morrow 
and bade me be ready to wed Gillian o’ the Gar- 
dens when they should return with a priest at 
six of St. Paul’s. Nay, I would not think o’ 
that time. There was no one I could turn to 
298 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


and I was fore-wearied and bewildered. Then 
quite suddenly I bethought me of a ring the 
Queen had given me by chance, when once she 
rode over the bridge long before. She bade me 
show it at the palace-gate an’ I would ever enter. 
So I took the ring and fled, only Silas knowing. 
Marry ! I wore this very little gown as my father 
had bidden me against my wedding.” 

“And the Queen?” he said, watching her 
face. 

A smile curved the girl’s lips. 

“I would I could tell thee of Her Majesty’s 
goodness to me,” she said. “I love her greatly 
and would serve her, or die for her an’ that 
would serve her better. But there is more to 
follow. That was a night of heavy mist. The 
palace was lit as it is now, and they danced in 
the throne-room. Then came my father to the 
water-stairs, for he had traced me here. He 
angered the guard, but escaped them and reached 
the colonnade and entrance-hall. There he was 
overtaken and given his death-blow. Lord 
Burghley brought word of this to the Queen, 
and she went with him to where my father lay 
dying. The Count de Simier was there likewise ; 

299 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


he who was envoy, you remember, for the Queen’s 
betrothed, Frangois de Valois, Duke of Alengon ; 
the Court physician looked on also. I know not 
in what way the knowledge came to the Queen, 
but she discovered then that my father, Rich- 
ard Davenport, was the son of Lord Caverden, 
the King’s friend. She gave him knighthood as 
he lay dying, and restored to him the lands of 
Caverden; for my sake, as she told me.” 

The girl’s voice trembled and stopped. 

Yelverton raised one of her little hands to his 
lips. Then he stood quite still. 

“ ’Twas Michael — Michael — said you, who 
told thee that story of Frazer’s will?” he ques- 
tioned slowly. 

‘‘Verily, yes,” Joyce returned. 

“Michael!” the man repeated again as to him- 
self. “O/c? Michael. So he has known the rea- 
son all these years. Fool! that I thought not of 
him.” 

Then he caught her hands in his. 

“Let it go,” he cried softly. ‘'Aye, let it go. 
We will think no more of what is past. I have 
thee, sweetheart, I have thee. The world may 
swing which way it will.” 

300 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


She drew back from him and the colour flew 
up into her face. 

‘‘Think not so, my Lord,” she said. “Thou 
art still wed.” 

“Did I not tell thee that shall be undone?” 
he said, bending his face to hers. “Joyce! 
Joyce!” 

The girl shook her head, and about her tender 
mouth came the determined look that long ago 
Dick Davenport of the Bridge had grown to 
know. 

“After taking that gold — of thy free will — on 
the conditions it was given thee,” she said, 
“wouldst use it to break the bonds it holds thee 
by? Nay,” her tone changing, “I know thee 
not if such would be thy plan.” 

He laughed softly, exultingly, but still held 
her hands so she could not withdraw them. 

“Thou hast not heard all,” he said. “By my 
faith, I have been the very sport of Fortune all 
my life. Chance hath diced for my happiness. 
Look you, sweet! I need nothing that ever be- 
longed to old Frazer of Dundee, for scarce had 
I gone north and married his ward ere word 
was brought me that a kinsman of mine in France, 
301 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 

unknown to me save by name, had died and 
bequeathed me enough of wealth to set me even 
with the world, and leave no possibility of pov- 
erty following in my wake. This he did for 
love of my mother. Marry! ’twas the irony of 
luck an' I could find it in my heart to wish this 
kinsman had had the grace to die earlier, for 
then I had not missed these ten years o’ life’s 
joy. Yet that, too, I will forgive, seeing I have 
thee again.” 

The girl stood before him, still and silent. In 
the depths of her eyes fear grew slowly. 

‘‘Answer me, sweetheart!” Yelverton cried. 
“Say thou wilt wed me when I break these 
bonds?” 

“Nay, my Lord, that I cannot say,” she an- 
swered. 

He bent toward her with a quick darkening 
of his eyes. 

“Dost not love me still ?’' he questioned. “Me- 
thinks I know the signs.” 

“Truly, I love thee,” she answered. 

“Then thou wilt go my way?” he returned. 

Joyce caught her hands away from his. 

“Nay, tempt me no more, my Lord,” she cried 
302 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


softly, ''tempt me no more. I am but a woman 
and I love thee. Yet I would do right.” 

He smiled. 

"Now I am content to leave it so, sweet !” he 
said. "Now will I not ask thee to come to me 
unless it be of thy own will.” 


303 









OLD MICHAEL GOES ON A 
JOURNEY 



4 



CHAPTER XIV 


S IX weeks had gone by since the night of 
the masquerade. Six tedious, slow-going 
weeks for the Court, for it followed the Queen’s 
caprices, and coloured its temper as much as 
might be to match hers. When she was gay, 
gayety reigned ; when she was melancholy, there 
were long and sober faces on every side ; and she 
danced, her lords and ladies danced likewise, but 
if she chose to walk instead, they followed. If 
she would be amused, they ransacked their wits 
to amuse her, but if she gave over the day to 
meditation, they were thoughtful likewise. Yet 
none lost their temper because the Queen lost 
hers, or returned her cutting satires in like coin. 
During these days her soul was as a harp out 
of tune, and every stray hand jangled the strings. 
A thousand torturing regrets stung her when she 
thought, and memory stalked through the corri- 
dors of the past, giving her no peace. Therefore, 
she banished memory as much as might be, and 

307 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


would not think if it were possible to keep thought 
in leash. Being ever variable and given to im- 
pulse, she had again veered about, and after a 
period of much revelry, kept to the seclusion 
of her own apartments and out of sight of the 
Court. Merriment was at a stand-still, and the 
little Maids of Honour pined and reviled their 
fate. 

When these unhappy moods overtook Her 
Majesty, she kept the one that chanced to please 
her best, or had power most surely to charm her 
thoughts from herself, close by her side, and for 
the time being that person was to all intents a 
prisoner. Whoever it might be, she would not 
let them away from her presence, yet lavished 
upon them every favour the while she demanded 
superhuman patience and indulgence of them for 
her numberless moods and fancies. 

It was the Lady Joyce Caverden upon whom 
the lot fell this time, and the Queen kept her 
continually near her. No one else, she main- 
tained, could read so clearly in the Latin, or 
made the French Court news such pleasant 
hearing. 

During the long sleepless nights when the 
308 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


Queen walked back and forth restlessly till the 
little hours, only the Lady Joyce could coax 
slumber to her eyes by playing on the lute or 
singing in her tender, low-pitched voice. 

The girl’s eyes grew over-bright during these 
days, and there were great shadows beneath them. 
Yet she never failed in patience or charity 
toward the woman she served. What was not 
to be understood she would not question, but 
gave, as was her nature, a simple loyalty and 
good faith where she gave her love. 

She had not seen Lord Yelverton since the 
night of the mask, nor heard from him directly, 
but she knew he still had rooms in the French 
buildings, for the Maids of Honour chattered 
volubly of all the doings of those gentlemen of 
the Court who were goodly enough of presence 
to catch the eye. 

One evening at early candle-light, Joyce Cav- 
erden chanced to go into the yellow-room to look 
for a letter the Queen had mislaid. As she en- 
tered she saw Lord Yelverton standing alone by 
the window that overlooked the river. He turned 
to her, his face lighting up suddenly, and caught 
her to him. 


309 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘‘So!” he cried softly, “it is thee at last? My 
patience hath all but gone; one way and another 
things have bid fair to drive me mad. Doth Her 
Majesty always keep thee so close?” 

“In truth, no,” she answered, “but her spirit 
is sorely vexed in some fashion during these days, 
and I must minister to her while she needs me, 
or till she grows better.” 

“Aye, sweet,” he answered, “I fear me you 
minister to what Will Shakespeare calls ‘a mind 
diseased,’ but I need thee as well. My mind 
has been on the rack through these past 
weeks.” 

Joyce looked up into his dark face and saw 
how lined and worn it was and deep about the 
eyes for want of sleep. 

“What hast come to thee?” she cried. “Thou 
art ill!” 

“No, I be not ill, but most unhappy. That 
old servant, whom thou hast reason to remember 
— Michael — hath disappeared. Since the night 
of the mask no one hath seen him. I have moved 
heaven and earth to find him, and now believe 
he hath taken his own life. ’Tis a desperate 
grief to me.” 


310 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘‘But for what reason?'’ she questioned, her 
eyes wide and frightened. 

'There is but one reason I can think of,” re- 
turned Yelverton. "I told him once, beloved, if 
I ever found the one who turned thee away from 
me, I would kill him. Twas Michael, as thou 
dost know.” 

Joyce raised up and put one hand upon his 
lips. 

"Say it not!” she said. "He did that, as he 
hath done everything all his life, for love of 
thee.” 

"Aye,” answered the man. "But he hath long 
known his zeal outstripped his knowledge that 
time, and he hath suffered. Memory gives me 
a thousand signs by which I know he hath suf- 
fered.” 

"I must to the Queen, my Lord,” she said. 

"I shall see thee later — or on the morrow?” 
asked the man. 

"I have it in my heart to hope so,” answered 
Joyce wistfully, "though perchance I should 
not.” 

"Thou art so beautiful!” he exclaimed. "Me- 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


seemeth that is the very gown of velvet and fur 
thou didst wear when I met thee in the passage- 
way?” 

‘‘Aye,” she answered, smiling, “the very 
gown.” 

“I would have thee wear it for thy wedding- 
dress. That little rose of thine — see you? It 
shall be clasped in my hand when I am dead.” 

“Speak not of death,” she said with a 
shudder. “I would not think of it to-night, my 
Lord.” 

“Nay,” he said, “we will only think of life. 
There — I will not keep thee from Her Majesty, 
though she owes me much in letting thee 

go-” 

An hour later Lord Yelverton turned into his 
apartments of the French building. The room 
he entered was dimly lit and by the hearth stood 
the bent figure of a man. 

Yelverton recognised him with a start, and 
strode across. 

“Michael !” he cried. “Michael, old one ! 
Where hast thou been? By Heaven! you had 
no right to give me such a search for thee. 


312 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


What means it all? And thou art ill! Worn 
away to a shadow !” 

The old servant nodded his head. 

*‘Aye/’ he said. ‘T be fore-wearied, my Lord. 
I have been to the north; back home to the 
castle.” 

“To the north? Home again? What mad 
chase was this?” 

The white face was raised pitifully to his. 

“Joyce Davenport o’ the Bridge hath come 
to life and thou dost still love her,” he whispered. 
“ ’Twas I who set things wrong, and turned her 
from thee, so I would set them right'' 

His voice broke, then went on. 

“I went north with murder in my soul, my 
Lord. I would have taken the life of that woman 
who is in name your wife, and so cleared thy path 
to happiness. Mayhap the sin would have lost 
me my soul, but that troubled me not.” 

Yelverton held him back with one arm and 
looked into his face. 

“You killed her, Michael?” he said hoarsely. 

The old man smiled back at him mockingly 
as it seemed in the gray light. 

313 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


“Nay/’ he said. “I would have, my Lord, 
most surely, but death forestalled me. 

“The little lads brought a fever home when 
they came from school at Noel-tide; one of them 
hath died of it, and she alsof* 

Yelverton drew in his breath sharply. 

“Say you so?” he answered. “Say you so, 
old one?” 

“Aye,” he answered, “an’ thou art once more 
free ! But — an* Fate had not freed thee, I would. 
Marry ! I — old Michael, who loved thee, yet 
wrought thee evil. What mattered it? She was 
no mate for thee ; a thing without a soul ; a light- 
o’-love ” 

The feeble voice faltered. 

“Nay, say it not, Michael,” broke in the other. 
“Come, what ails thee, old one? Thou art ill — 
out-wearied and distraught.” 

The thin figure slipped against him, and Yel- 
verton gently lowered it in his arms to a little 
couch near by. 

“There, that is better; now thou wilt rest.” 

The faded eyes looked up adoringly into his 
face. 


314 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


‘‘Aye/’ he muttered, “ things be set right. ’Tis 
time to rest. Tis time.” 

He drew a long fluttering breath. 

Yelverton bent over him. 

“Old one!” he cried. “Old one!” 

There was a long pause, and out-of-doors the 
darkness grew deeper. In the still room the man 
rose from his knees and stood beside the travel- 
worn figure. 

“So,” he said. “So comes death to all of 
us.” 

It was the next morning, and Lord Yelverton 
and Joyce Caverden stood by the window in the 
yellow-room that overlooked the Thames. The 
river sparkled like beaten silver in the sun and 
ran swiftly on its way to the sea. 

“Bitter years come to all, sweetheart,” said 
the man, “but at the end joy comes not to all — 
as it hath to me. ’Tis not every man who hath 
the courage to rob Her Majesty. But I shall 
certainly take thee from her and carry thee to 
France, the land of sunshine and blue skies. 
When wilt thou wed me, sweetheart?” 

The girl raised her face to his and touched 

315 


BY THE QUEEN’S GRACE 


with her lips the little scar that showed upon 
his cheek. 

‘'On the day that pleaseth thee best, my Lord,” 
she answered. 


THE END 


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